


Tailspin

by levicel



Series: Heads or Tails - Tails, you win. [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Smut, This will be an episode of Supernatural basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levicel/pseuds/levicel
Summary: You're enjoying your not-a-relationship with Dean when Sam finds a case. In the real world, you quickly see how different you and Dean are. Can you break up with someone you were never dating?(This will get happy, I swear!)Continuation of Head or Tails - Dean Timeline.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Series: Heads or Tails - Tails, you win. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086413
Comments: 103
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This right here is gonna be long. It will follow the "episode formula" of Supernatural, so I hope that comes across. Alsooooo, yeah, it's gonna get sad, but I promise not to leave it that way! 
> 
> Tailspin can mean a mental or emotional letdown or collapse, but feel free to sing the Tailspin theme whenever you want. I know I did...

“Bye, Ronnie!” the bleach blonde says with a wave. She unclips her thighs highs, rolling the fishnets off her legs and rubbing the markings off her skin as much as she can in two seconds. As soon as Ronnie is out of ear shot, the blonde whispers to the girl next to her. “Bitch…”

The women giggle as they change out of g-strings and barely there bikini tops and into sweatpants and sweaters.

“Come on now. She ain’t that bad,” says a husky, raven haired woman from the back.

“She doesn’t hate you,” the bleach blonde counters.

“You just gotta lay off your weird shit, Cyn,” her friend suggests as she pulls her own blonde locks into a messy bun.

“I _like_ my weird shit,” Cyn retorts.

Then comes a sound. Anyone else would think it’s the wind. The weather’s gonna shift soon and there’s always a lot of wind when that happens. But Cyn pulls a knife, long and wicked looking, seemingly out of nowhere and the girls around her gasp. Then the bleach blonde is across the room, hastily locking the door.

“See?! _That_ weird shit!” her friend yells over the room’s frightened murmuring.

Cyn hushes the room with a ‘Shh!’.

A knock makes all the girls jump.

“Let me in!” Ronnie’s muffled voice cries from the other side as she slams her palms against the door.

Cyn flips the lock. Ronnie races in and slams the door shut, her hands shaking as she locks it again.

Then something, something _big_ , rams into the door and the girls huddle together. The door quakes as a heaving unknown thing rams against it once more. The metal hinges rattle. The knob frantically twists and turns before it falls uselessly to the ground. And then…

...the door opens.

* * *

You’re passing by what should be an empty room when a hand emerges from the darkness and grabs you inside. This has been a new development as of late. Sam takes morning runs and, sure, you and Dean enjoy the alone time as much as you can, but now you’re both greedy for more. So you steal moments like this.

“I thought you were headed to the garage,” you say, your fingers curling around his flannel’s collar as you tug him down for a kiss since you can’t see him in the pitch black.

“I was,” he defends quietly as he meets you.

You had a boyfriend like this over the summer when you were young. The sneaking around. The stolen kisses. The expiration date. You’re happy to pretend that the world only exists in this bunker, kept neat and tidy in a little bubble, but bubbles, the frivolous, fragile things that they are, inevitably pop and you’re not about to delude yourself that the first guy you ever sleep with is the one you spend your life with.

Dean, though, he makes it easy to only think of the here and now when he sucks in your bottom lip and hungrily pulls your body to his. You let him guide you back until your back presses against a shelf. Then something flesh and fur brushes your neck and you jerk away.

“What the hell was that?” you gasp, reaching back to rub the icky feeling off your skin.

“What was what?” Dean grumbles, then he pulls away from you.

You blink when the lights come on, blinded from the change. You turn around to look at the shelf you’d been pressed against. What touched you was… a monkey paw? Dear God. 

“A Twilight Zone Variety Pack?” you wonder, stepping back to fully inspect the shelf. It’s full of all kinds of oddities. Nothing even particularly looks occult. More like some safari guy’s whacked out collection. “What even is this room?”

“I don’t know…” Dean drawls as he looks over the collection for a moment and before he’s done speaking he’s leaning down for another kiss.

You lay your hand flat on his chest. “I’ve gotta get back.”

“Sam’s fine doing research on his own. He loves it.”

You raise your eyebrow disbelievingly.

“He _does_!”

You can’t resist giving him one more peck before you wiggle away from his grasp and back out the door. “I’m going to help anyway,” you say before you flick off the light and leave him in the dark.

* * *

You make it back to the study in record time.

“You didn’t grab a sweater?” Sam asks.

Oh. Right. You had been on the way to your room to grab one. “I decided I’m not cold anymore.” 

That’s half true, you think. Then you hear footsteps behind you and you roll your eyes. He’s _supposed_ to be in the garage.

Sam smiles at his laptop screen. “Good. You’re both here. I found something.” Both you and Dean flip to business mode as Sam reads off his screen. “Bartlett, Tennessee. Cynthia Clairemont “vanished out of thin air” according to eyewitnesses. Last seen-” He pauses, reading a little further. “Leaving work. There’s been a surge of animal attacks, unexplained disappearances… The place is a hot spot right now.”

“Bartlett?” Dean nods, mapping out a plan in his head. “We can get there by tomorrow morning if we leave soon enough. I’ll make sure Baby’s ready for the road. You two can pack up.”

Finally off to the garage, you think as he leaves. “Is he already packed?”

Sam unplugs his laptop and wraps the charger cord up. “I’ll make him a bag.” He smiles lazily at you as he packs up his computer. “How long you thinking of sticking with us?”

Aaaaand there it is. The million dollar question you’ve been trying to avoid.

You both head out together and you playfully poke him in the ribs. “Why? You sick of me already?”

Sam shakes his head. “I love having you here,” he says good-naturedly. “So does Dean.”

Bubbles, you think. Tiny bubbles floating through the summer air.

“Haven’t really thought about it,” you half-lie. “We had the one case, then that salt and burn.”

“...We haven’t had a case in over a week,” Sam points out.

“We have one _now_ ,” you deflect. “And I gotta pack. I’ll see ya in the garage.”

* * *

“Oof!”

You peak your head in the back seat where you tossed your bag. You packed a lot of stuff, but none of it talked. There, uncomfortably nestled in the Impala’s backseat, is Sam. He takes your bag off his chest and tucks it down between the front and back seat.

“What are you…?” You just laugh at how strange he looks, his long limbs all scrunched up back there.

“It’s a long drive,” Sam explains. “I’m gonna nap in the back before I take over driving.”

In the back. Yeah. Because that’s so much more comfortable for him. Clearly. And if you have to ride shotgun, well that’s just a coincidence.

You shut Sam in the back and take shotgun. “You comfy back there?” you tease. You can still see him in the rearview mirror and his glare makes you smile more. “Feeling peachy?”

“Keen,” Sam retorts.

Dean scoots in the driver’s seat, asking, “What’s that?”

You shut your door, smirking at Sam through the rearview. “Nothing.”

Dean follows your eye line, looking at you and then back at his brother. He squints at the two of you, but starts the car without another word. Music erupts from the stereo and you quickly turn it down. Dean turns it back up to blaring. You turn it down. The car just hit the road. This can’t possibly be the entire trip.

“Sam’s trying to sleep,” you argue.

Dean huffs through his nose. “He’s fine.” Then he’s got the music up again, going so far as to yell over it, “Right, Sammy?”

In the rearview mirror, you watch Sam wrap his jacket over his head.

Dean only risks brief looks at you as he drives, so you watch his shit eating grin grow in profile. “See? Fine.”

You turn the volume down once more, maybe not as quiet as you’d like for Sam, but quiet- _er_ than it had been. “Stop torturing your brother. We’ve got-”

The GPS on your phone says-

“Jesus! Ten hours. How have you two not killed each other?” you ask.

Sam’s voice, muffled from his coat, comes from the back. “I’m considering it.”

“Aww, come on! You love Skynyrd,” Dean argues and then the music is blasting and he’s singing, no, shouting along. “Oh, be something you love and understand! Baby, be a-!”

Sam starts kicking Dean’s seat which, as a bench seat, is your seat as well, but you don’t care because the distraction lets you lower the volume again.

“I know you don’t have your nasty boots on, kicking my car! I-”

“Dean!” you yell. He’s got one of Sam’s legs pinned by the headrest and one hand on the steering wheel. “You’re driving!”

Dean lets go and rolls his shoulders. “He started it.”

You hear Sam huff.

Your GPS says 9 hours, 57 minutes...

* * *

The beginning of the trip was an outlier. Most of the drive was silence. Well, not silence, just no talking. Once Sam dozed off, you didn’t know how to start a conversation with Dean alone, so you just left it and let the music fill the vacant air. You zoned out, looking out the window and watching the scenery change, delighting when you saw cows. You were going to tell Dean about the cows like you would with your family when you were really little on road trips, but that feels childish and Dean is having fun singing along to the music. Maybe he doesn’t know you can hear. The bits and pieces you get makes you think he has a nice voice and you worry if you talk now, he’ll stop. This feels secret, like you’re hearing something you’re not supposed to. 

Later, you’ve swapped spots with Sam and make the backseat look like a King bed with your height difference. Sam grumbles something and you see him try to stretch his neck as you hunker down in the back. You tried to warn him earlier, you think with a satisfied smirk. You don’t know what Sam expected you and Dean to talk about or do. Dean doesn’t care about cows, you reason as your eyes get heavy.

You’re not a heavy sleeper -hunter instincts are to thank for that- but you’re not a light sleeper. It figures that you and Dean wouldn’t talk, but you thought Sam and Dean would and that they’d keep you up. In the end, it’s not their voices that wake you up, it’s the shift in speed when Sam pulls off the highway. Your eyelids flash orange as streetlights pass overhead. You keep your eyes closed, hoping to get a few more minutes, when your groggy brain picks up Dean’s voice.

“Drop it.”

There’s a pause that’s three streetlights long.

“So you wouldn't care if she left?” Sam asks quietly and you have the sneaking suspicion that he’s watching you through the rearview, so you keep still.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Dean asserts, loud compared to the quiet night. There’s a one streetlight pause. “Can you-?” Dean whispers and you know he is looking at you through the mirror. “When I tell you to drop it, drop it.”

You shift in the backseat as the Impala pulls in somewhere. You’re not ready to wake up yet. Nothing Dean said is surprising. You shouldn’t be upset. You didn’t expect him to care. You don’t _want_ him to care. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Once the car stops and you hear the driver’s side door open and shut, you open your eyes. You sit up and stretch, but don’t bother hamming up a performance. You heard. And it’s fine. You force a smile Dean’s way as you shut your door. 

He doesn’t smile back. “Sam’s getting a room. Let’s grab the bags.”

He hitches both his and his brother’s bags on his shoulder and you grab yours from the back. Sam meets you both at the car, tossing a key to Dean without even looking. 

“They only had two,” Sam says to you with a shrug.

No big deal. That’s fine.

Sam opens the door to Room 19 and you all file in. It’s a nice room for a motel. Maybe your bar is low, but you don’t see water damage on the walls or ceiling, so this is a win. Both beds look well kept and the linens look fresh.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Dean calls out to his brother, getting his hands in the starting position. “Loser gets the floor.”

You and Sam share a look. Is he serious? Dean’s resolve doubles and he even grounds his stance.

“We’re adults,” you laugh. “I don’t mind bunking up with one of you.” You’ve “bunked up” with one of ‘em more than the other, so really, it’s a no-brainer.

“Okay,” Dean says and he relaxes a bit. Then, he’s back in play position. “Loser gets her.”

Okay. Ouch. Phrasing. But it’s fine.

Sam looks like he’s going over his options and by the tiny, apologetic smile he shoots your way, you imagine he’s gonna offer to share, but instead he says to Dean, “You’re on.”

In a second, the game is over.

“Oh, come on!” Dean complains. “Best two out of three.”

“Ass,” you mutter as you shove past Dean and plop your bag on the further bed. 

“Dude…” Sam whispers behind you.

* * *

Sam’s “Get some rest” is a thinly veiled “Play nice”. After he shuts off the lamp, you’re left in the dark. You feel the mattress shift as Dean joins you in bed and you scoot as far right as you can get without falling off and face the door. You’re facing Sam this way. He’s just a black blob in the dark, the light coming through the shades casting him in silhouette. You can’t even tell if he’s facing you or not.

You stare at the black blob that is Sam for a while. You want to turn on your other side, but then you’ll be facing Dean and you’re pretty sure he’s still awake too. Ugh. You’re not comfy, but you don’t want to move around too much because you want Dean to think you’re asleep. Once he’s asleep then you can turn around and fall asleep, so he should hurry up already.

“You awake?” Deans whispers.

You clench your hands into fists, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“You steal blankets.”

You can’t hear him. He’s on the other side of the bed and whispering like an idiot. “What?” you whisper harshly, turning around not to see him, but to get comfy.

“You steal all the blankets,” he says, much closer now. He must have moved when you did.

...That’s it? 

That’s the big reason he would rather sleep on the floor than with you?

You take this chance to look at him. The light coming through the shades illuminates his face, so you catch every nuance of his expression while you remain shrouded in darkness. His hair is a little wonky from the pillows, but otherwise he’s calm and collected. ...And shirtless. 

Bullshit!, you think, forcing a glare at him even if he can’t see it.

“I do not,” you whisper back and turn back around, inching to the very edge again. You’re less comfortable this way, but your pride demands it. You tug the blanket back up to your chin.

“Sure.” You can hear him roll his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” you grumble. “I’ll sleep with Sam from now on.”

Phrasing could be better. ...Whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re tired. You’ll talk to Sam tomorrow. The room feels cold now. With a sigh, you think you really could do without the symbolism and you cuddle into the blanket more, doing your best to make a cocoon. Dean doesn’t know what he’s talking about. _“You steal all the blankets.”_ Like he would know. You only slept together a few times and _slept_ slept together even less.

He doesn’t know you at all.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIIITCHH!!! I read the opening scene to my sister to see if it made sense because, BITCH, let me tell you! I take for granted a damn show being a visual medium. I gotta describe multiple nameless characters talking and doing stuff and have it make sense. In a show you just eat that shit up with your eyeballs and don't think twice!
> 
> Anyway, please tell me how much you love it so far because I need the validation. I'm not even joking. There is a direct correlation between my desire to write and the amount of comments I get. It really is invigorating. I'm just screaming out into this void, y'all. Let me hear ya and know you're in this with me!
> 
> (And if in the later chapters, the murder mystery aspect is too obvious, DON'T tell me! D: I'm challenging myself with this and fucking mystery novels ARE HARD! HOW DID THEY MAKE 15 SEASONS?!!?!?)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up and, bow howdy, is it cold. You need a coat.

An alarm blares, pulling you out of sleep. Your brain is latched onto a fading dream as you blink your eyes open. You’re pretty sure you were a farmer? There were cows there. Sam whips the curtains open and the bright sun fills the room. You tuck your face into the blankets and groan. From the glimpse you got before you were so rudely blinded, Sam is already walking around the room in a suit. Who wakes up _before_ their alarm?

Dean yawns behind you, “What’s the plan?”

You feel the bed shift as Dean stretches. They might be ready to face the day, but you’re not. You burrow into the blankets. When you notice the complete lack of resistance, you crane your neck back and see that Dean has his jacket backwards over him. You watch him get up and throw a shirt on and you frown. His words echo back to you, “You _steal all the blankets.”_

You turn away guiltily just as Sam answers his brother.

“I was thinking we could check out Temptations later today,” Sam says. “Ask around. See what we can dig up.”

You sit up in your blanket burrito. “Temptations? Sounds the name of a strip club,” you laugh. Sam’s face says ‘Bingo’. “Shut up. Are we going to a strip club?”

“Um…” Sam starts awkwardly. “ _Dean_ and I are.” He looks behind you to his brother. “I packed our suits, figured FBI would be an easy in.”

Oh. Right. That makes sense. They always do stuff together, so why wouldn’t they do this together? And it’s not like anyone needs a hoard of FBI agents showing up to the scene. You don’t have anything for disguises anyway. That was never your modus operandi. You all are on this hunt together, but you don’t have to do _everything_ together. This is fine.

You look back to Dean, hoping to extend an olive branch. “A strip club. That’ll be fun.”

“On a Monday afternoon?” Dean says, leaning on the dresser across from the bed. He couldn’t be farther away from you. “They don’t exactly run with A team on the weekdays.”

So much for the olive branch…

“Hopefully, once we talk to some witnesses, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” Sam says. “We can head to the station-”

You whip the blankets away and are smacked with cold air. “Jesus, it’s cold!”

“Is it?” Dean asks sarcastically.

Sam chortles. “Yeah, the temperature dropped. Should be like this through the week.”

You rub your arms as you get up and throw a long sleeve shirt on, then another button down for good measure. “I didn’t pack another coat,” you groan. All you have on you is your light weather coat.

Dean interjects suddenly, digging through his bag, “Did you-?” 

“Yes,” Sam answers before his brother can finish. "I packed a coat."

“Nice,” Dean smiles, giving up the search. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Then we can head out.”

You know by now, you are not part of the ‘We’ and you wonder why they even brought you along. 

“Do you have a sweater I could borrow?” you ask Sam. “I’ll head into town, grab a coat, feel out the locals.” 

Sam mutters a ‘Sure’ and tosses you a thick knit cardigan. You throw it on over everything. The sleeves are absurdly long, easily covering your hands, and it’s long enough to be a dress on you if you buttoned it up all the way. You know it looks terrible, but it’s warm, like wearing a blanket.

“One more favor…” You fiddle with the too long sleeves. “Could I sleep in your bed while we’re here?”

“Yeah. Of course,” Sam says. Then he shrugs and throws his hands out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to get another room. Figured it’s cheaper and you two-” He gestures to you and then the bathroom where Dean is.

You squint at him, daring him to finish that sentence. What does he know? You feel your face start to flush, but you calm yourself down. Sam doesn’t necessarily know anything.

“...wouldn’t mind sharing a bed,” Sam finishes.

See? Nothing to worry about.

“Sam,” you sigh. “We had sex one time.”

“One time?” Sam levels a look your way.

You quickly look away and pull on socks. “One time,” you insist, stuffing your pajama pants into your boots. “And it was for business. Now I have new business. First order of business? Get a new coat.”

You have your hand on the doorknob when you stop. 

“Actually…,” you think aloud and walk over to Sam’s nightstand and grab his room key. “First order is don’t get locked out. See ya later.”

* * *

You stop by the motel clerk and ask him about shops nearby. There’s a mall here, he tells you, but when you tell him you don’t have a car, he tells you about some shops down the road.

“A bit of a walk though,” he says, actually taking a break from his magazine to eye your questionable attire. 

Don’t strain a muscle, big guy, you think and cross the unbuttoned flaps of Sam’s cardigan around yourself. “I like walking.”

“I’m sure you do. You follow the road until you see a fork.” He points behind him and then he snaps his magazine straight. “Hitch a right and you’ll see ‘em. Good luck.”

You furrow your brow. “...Thanks.”

You can see your breath as you walk, so you blow out hard a couple times, your breath billowing like smoke. Like you’re a dragon. You frown. Fucking dragons. That’s what got you into this whole mess in the first place. If Sam and Dean had just let you go to a bar, this would’ve been fine. You think of the clientele at the bar closest to the bunker and imagine some greasy, sweaty so-and-so heaving and...

Yeah. Your stomach lurches. Maybe it wouldn’t have been fine. But it wouldn’t have been this!

What if Sam had won the coin toss? You don’t think of Sam that way at all. Your brain supplies, unwarranted, that you didn’t think of Dean that way either. If you lost your virginity to Sam, you doubt you’d have all these feelings. Not that you have feelings for Dean. Because you don’t. You just have feelings and there’s a lot of them and sometimes Dean is involved, you reason.

It’s not like Dean wanted you anyway. He just won the coin toss. _“Loser gets her.”_ ...Or lost the coin toss. He was just passing the time with you. You don’t need to feel bad. Weren’t you doing the same thing? Yeah, you tell yourself. It was meaningless.

“Completely meaningless,” you mutter to yourself. 

You see the fork up a head. Good. You pull the sweater tighter, fixing some of the fabric around your neck to shield it from the wind. Your hair blows this way and that and you don’t bother fixing it because that would mean taking your hands out of the warm cocoon you’ve made. So you just shake your head to get your hair out of your eyes and press on, taking a right at the fork.

“It doesn’t have to be weird, right?” you ask no one.

The area slowly transitions from empty roads with no sidewalks to buildings with sidewalks. Good because your boots were getting muddy from walking on the side of the road this whole time. And that is precisely why you tucked your pajama pants into your boots.

“No one likes wet pajamas.”

A woman loading her van looks up at you as you pass by.

“Uh… hi,” you say dumbly and go to hurry past, but you see a mannequin out of the corner of your eye.

A shop! A fancy shop, you correct, looking closer at the swanky clothes in the front window. Sam and Dean have those nice “FBI” suits. You could get an outfit like that. Who would you say you’re with?

“Fish and Wildlife?” you joke, laughing to yourself as you enter.

You make it one step in the door before a sales associate approaches you. “May I help you?” she snidely asks.

“Uh, yeah,” you reply. What’s with the attitude? You try to take a step forward and she cuts you off, then another associate steps up to better block you out.

“I have to ask you to leave,” the woman says, looking down her nose at you.

“Excuse me?!”

“This isn’t Goodwill,” the other associate remarks and the two of them take a unified step forward. “You can dirty up someplace else,” they say pointedly grimacing at your feet.

Your muddy boots are tracking marks, but so what? They’re shoes. They get dirty. Wait, Goodwill? “Do you think I’m homeless?” you ask as they bully you out.

Their only answer is synchronized ‘Hmph!’ and then they close and lock the door. Did they practice that or something?!

“I am not-!” you yell and bang against the glass door. It’s here, in the door’s reflection, that you finally look at yourself. You’re in a sweater that is a million sizes too big with mismatched tops underneath, all on top of pajama pants and muddy boots. And your hair… You hadn’t touched your hair before leaving the motel and the wind hadn’t done you any favors. “Oh, God…”

“You were talking to yourself earlier too,” says the woman behind you. She’s done loading her car. Good for her.

Your face is flush with embarrassment and anger, so you look back to the shop. “Ever seen Pretty Woman?!” you yell to make sure they can hear you through the door. They’ve run off to hide, but you know they’re still in there. “Big mistake!” you shout. “Huge!” 

“It’s a classic,” the woman behind you says. She’s dressed in normal clothes and she looks sweet. Her jeans are a little dirty, but you saw her loading potted plants into her van, so she’d probably be allowed in. “Do you… need help?”

“I am not homeless!,” you whine.

The woman laughs, putting her hands up in playful surrender. “Everyone needs help sometimes.”

You look up into the sky and sigh, watching your breath puff out into the cold air. “I just want to buy a jacket.”

“That all? The church probably got some to give away. I’m headed there. Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.” 

She closes the side door of the van and you can read the decal on the side: New Hope Christian Church. 

“It’s a short drive, but a bit of a walk,” she says. Then she looks back at the shop. “‘Less you wanna wait for them to open back up.”

The two sales associates are huddled by the door to spy on you and the woman. Once you turn to look at them, they scramble away.

“Did she see us?” “ I don’t know. Should we call the cops?”

* * *

Don’t they say something about not getting into vans with strangers?, you think as you sit in a van with a stranger. 

The van is old. It’s funny to call a car old after riding around in Dean’s Impala, but where his car is vintage, this van is plain old. It’s kept clean enough. There’s some dirt spread around the floor, but the bushes behind you must be the culprits. The roominess is definitely nice. You started out scrunched. After sitting behind the guys in the Impala, you got used to limited leg room. Now you’ve got tons of room, you think. And it smells nice. You look to the cherry shaped and scented air freshener hanging off the rearview.

“So where ya from? Haven’t seen you around,” the woman asks in her sweet, Southern twang.

“I’m passing through,” you say. Since you’re finally talking to someone, you might as well throw out a line. See what you catch. “Maybe I should leave sooner than later. I heard people are going missing.”

“The people leaving are not well. You got a drug addict living on the street and they turn up missin’? Well… I ain’t too surprised,” the woman says with a frown, just as you turn into the church parking lot. “Listen to me,” she says, shaking her head as she shuts off the engine. “Lord forgive me, I am a better Christian than that.” 

When the two of you hop out, she walks around the side and pulls open the door. “You mind helping me get these ‘round back?” she asks.

It’s gonna take her a few trips even with your help. You each can only hold one of these bushes at a time. “No problem,” you say.

The church van is old, but the church? Now that is _old_. You can tell from the style of it. When it was first built, it probably had no air conditioning. You’ve seen some of those in Missouri. New Hope got a new coat of paint recently though. It’s all pearly white.

Once you get to the back of the church, potted plant in hand, you see why this lady’s got so many plants. There’s a big plot of dirt all torn up. An older woman kneels in the dirt, digging out rows, and she pops up once she sees you two.

“Oh, thank you, thank you. Maude, you are an angel. You can set ‘em over there.” She gestures over to the side and you follow Maude’s lead.

You would never have picked Maude for this girl. She’s all bright and bubbly and young. Maude is an old lady’s name. You look over to the other woman. Grey hair, wrinkles, liver spots. Now _she’s_ a Maude.

“Little late in the season for gardening,” you say as a chilly breeze picks up. Now that your hands are free, you wrap Sam’s sweater around you again.

“Don’t I know it,” Not-Maude-But-Should-Be-Maude sighs and rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. She isn’t wearing gloves, so she must feel that she has dirt on her hands and she must feel the dirt she just smeared on her face.

You look over at Maude for direction. She doesn’t say anything, so you don’t say anything.

“Dang dogs keep digging up the grass and I ain’t ‘bout to leave it to get all muddy. Chester worked so hard to fix it the last time. I don’t know who’s letting their pups off leash, but they better pray I don’t find ‘em,” the old woman finishes, hands on her hips.

You look back at the plot, your breath fanning out like smoke.

Maude nudges your arm. “Let’s get you that jacket.”

“Oh!” The older woman’s eyes widen and she looks at you like she just realized you’re here and she looks you over. “Yes. Maude will show you where the bins are.” She touches your arm and all you can think about is that she’s getting dirt on Sam’s sweater. “You take whatever you need, dear.”

Dang. She’s giving you the Grandma eyes. It’s like a hug and hot cocoa combined. “Thanks,” you smile while Maude laughs.

* * *

Maude takes you to the church’s basement. It must have been redone since it was first built, but that had to have been decades ago and hurriedly at that. The floor is some laminated tiles stuck over what must be uneven concrete. You know because your foot dips randomly as you follow Maude.

None of the stuff down here cares about appearances though. There’s old signage, extra chairs, and decorations all forgotten and covered in dust. Only one wall of things looks like it's getting any use. Maude shows you to it.

“We haven’t gone through the donations yet, so they’re kinda jumbled,” Maude says apologetically as you open one of the plastic tubs.

You pick up a child’s mitten and one boot. “You don’t say.”

Maude laughs. “I’ll leave you to it. Gotta get the rest of the stuff out of the van.”

“Sure,” you smile. “Thanks.”

There are a ton of bins. Lots of kid’s clothes, a Hawaiian shirt, hats, and gloves. You do find a nice-ish pair of pants and top. Grandma Not-Maude did say you could take whatever you needed, you reason. But still no jacket. 

You’re digging through a promising bin of mostly winter clothes when you feel a chill. Your breath comes out like thick smoke and the lights flicker. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. A ghost? You were in such a rush this morning that you didn’t bring anything with you. No salt. No iron. You look around the room. In the forgotten, No Man’s Land that is the other side of the basement, you spot an old podium, but more importantly, you see a cross on top of it. When you pick up the statue and test the weight, your best guess is that it's iron, but who knows.

“Better than nothing,” you say, not liking the way your words hang in the chilled air.

You hold the cross tight. Something just out of your vision slides across the floor. You inch forward carefully, crouched in the flickering light. There’s just a cardboard box, recycled from someone’s recent online purchase, and there are more clothes. The lights settle down and you can see into the open box. Right on top is a jacket. You take out a thick denim jacket with sherpa lining. The collar is discolored from time and there’s some tiny circles burnt into some spots. You get a whiff of something and bring the jacket closer to sniff it. It faintly smells like cigarettes.

Well… you wanted a jacket. This one feels warm at least and it is free. You stand up with clothes draped over one arm and the cross in your other hand. You hear a creak behind you and feel a gush of cold air. Something touches your shoulder and you spin around, jutting the cross out to repel the spirit.

“Woah!” Maude jumps back, hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.” She eyes the cross in your hand with a smile. “You afraid of demons?”

“Ghosts,” you correct, smiling back.

Maude’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh, yeah! This basement is creepy.” She leans and confesses, “I think all basements are creepy. Attics too.”

You laugh, “Yeah.”

Maude takes in the outfit you’ve built up “Come on upstairs and you can get changed.” She gestures for you to follow her and you do.

“So you’ve noticed strange things for a while?” you question, watching Maude’s reaction as you follow. If she’s seen a ghost, she’ll act like it. “Lights going on and off?”

“Lights. Things moving…” she lists.

“Things moving?”

Maude’s shoulders fall as she leads you through the church. “I swear nothing I put down ever stays in the same place.” You hear her frown. You also hear her recover to her smiling self. “But that might be on account of me being forgetful.” She taps her head. “It’s nice to blame ghosties.”

“But the lights,” you press as she leads you to the restroom. “How long have you noticed them acting up?”

Maude hums and she turns around. “I don’t know… Chet’s been working on repairs. I’m sure he’ll get to it.” She sees you’re unsatisfied and smiles warmly at you, touching your shoulder. “You ain’t gotta be scared. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

You force a smile back.

* * *

As you’re changing, you hear a text notification. 

**_Sam - Got Missing Person reports from the station. Grabbing some food now._ **

You text back, **_Get me something._ **

**_Sam- Already done. You coming back to the room now?_ **

You tap your foot. 

**_Not yet._ **

When you come out of the bathroom, old clothes in hand, you find Maude talking to Not-Maude.

“Why don’t you just call Chet? He’ll help you,” Maude suggests.

“I’m not bothering that boy. Chester does enough as it is.” The old woman is juggling various gardening tools when she notices you and gives that certified Grandma smile. “Well, don’t you clean up nice?”

The woman says this as if she is not so very covered in dirt. “I’m sure you will too,” you quip.

The old woman gives out a hoot. “I’m sure I will! Maude, who is your friend? She comin’ to service?”

Maude steps over to you. “Brenda, this is…” Then she stands up straight as a board and turns to you, taking your hand and shaking it. Your right arm is the arm you’ve got your clothes balanced on, so it’s more like Maude holding your hand than shaking it. 

“I am Maude and I apologize that I am just now introducing myself. I was just so excited to have someone to talk to outside of church,” she gushes and releases your hand.

You readjust your old clothes on your arm. “Yeah…” You theatrically look over your surroundings. “That might be nice one day.” 

That earns you cackles out of the both of ‘em. Then they stare at you, waiting. Oh. Your turn. 

“Cherry,” you say, thinking of the van’s air freshener. “My name’s Cherry. And you’re… Brenda?”

“Yes, dear. I’d shake your hand, but…” When she moves to show off her dirt-covered hands, the tools in her grasp swing out. “I’ll get out y’all’s hair.” She gives Maude that sweet Grandma smile. “Thank you, angel.”

You don’t think Brenda’s going to need all that stuff. What is she doing with a rake? Maybe she should call that Chet guy. You look over to Maude who is shaking her head ‘No.’ Alright. You’re following Maude’s lead.

“Is Brenda your… grandmother?” you guess.

Maude laughs. “Oh, shoot! Nah. But ain’t she the sweetest? Makes sugar taste like salt, that one. No, her husband was pastor ‘for he died.”

Interesting. “How long ago was that?”

Maude gets more serious. Her 10/10 smile dims down. “I don’t know. A couple years? I don’t know her too well. I haven’t been here long. Only ‘bout a month and the only people I meet are through the church.” She touches your hand. “Have I mentioned how much I like talking to you, Cherry? You don’t have dentures. You sure you don’t wanna stick around?”

“I might be in town a while,” you say. It’s true after all and her smile is infectious. 

A scream from the back shocks you both. You and Maude run outside. The plot is an explosion of dirt, the tools are all strewn about and the bushes, if they were ever planted, are uprooted and thrown in careless heaps. Brenda scrambles backwards on the ground.

Maude runs to her side, kneeling down. “Brenda! Are you okay?! What happened?!”

“I-I thought someone buried a cat. But then…,” Brenda stutters out, clutching onto Maude’s arm.

You step forward to inspect the dirt. 

“Shh, shh… It’s okay. You’re okay,” Maude coos. You hear a voice through her phone, “ _911, What’s your emergency?”_

In the center, clear as day, is a corpse, its eyeless head turned as if to watch you, its arm stretched out, fingers clawing towards you. Your breath fills the air like smoke.

“It grabbed my arm,” Brenda gasps. “It _moved_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no smut yet. D: They're all sharing a motel room, y'all! I'm sorry. Mama's gotta set up these plot lines, you know?
> 
> Also, I am so sorry to anyone who lives in Bartlett, Tennessee and reads this story. I'm doing you dirty. I know it. I don't want to though! If I do, just know I didn't want to. New Hope is actual church, y'all! >_< I'm not good at coming up with names! Temptations is the name of the strip club on the Office and Dean's dialogue is a reference to Darryl's line on the office. (Because I love the Office)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes out of the shower and you're gone. Once you're back, there's more work to do.

“Where’d she go?” Dean asks Sam.

Dean came out of the bathroom in his henley and pajamas pants, drying off his hair with a towel. His clothes stick uncomfortably to his still damp skin. He isn’t sure where the line is since you’ve seen each other naked, but he figured he shouldn’t walk around in a towel in a room you’re both sharing with his brother. Only thing is you’re not here.

“Went to buy a coat.”

“Shopping? Really?” Dean smiles to himself as he pats the towel against his skin to dry off better and starts to change into his suit. It’s not the same teasing you when you’re not around to pout about it. “I could’ve dropped her off.”

Sam laughs through his nose. “Like she’d ask you for any favors.”

Dean works on buttoning his dress shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re kidding,” Sam says. “You were being a dick last night.”

“I told her I was sorry,” Dean shrugs.

“Really?,” Sams asks incredulously.

Dean rolls his eyes, the tie in his hand swishing through the air as he wraps it loosely around his neck. “Not those exact words.” He pops his shirt collar up and starts tying his tie. “But she knows.” 

“Sure,” Sam agrees sarcastically. “That’s why she’s bunking with me for the rest of the trip.”

Dean’s face falls for a tick. “She can do whatever she wants. More room for me-” He tightens the tie knot “-and more blanket.”

Sam sighs. “If you would just talk to her. She probably heard you in the car-”

“So she heard. So what?” Dean pauses dressing a moment to look at his brother. “If you’re the relationship expert, what? Am I supposed to lie? Tell her I didn’t mean what I said? Because I did.”

“You did,” Sam says flatly.

“Yes.” Dean’s hands fidget since he’s done dressing. “I don’t know why you’re on about this.”

“So there’s nothing going on,” Sam poses and the younger Winchester watches his brother. “Just helped with the dragon case. One and done. You haven’t been sneaking around with her.”

Dean looks around the room and licks his lips while he thinks of a response.

“Dude, if you like her, great. But if you don’t? Then cut it out.” Sam heads to the door, holding it open. “You ready to go?”

* * *

The police station is mostly the same old, same old. Sam and Dean flash their badges and the clerk delivers what they need while the bustle of the station falls into background noise. It’s nice to not be at an active crime scene. They don’t have to look at a mangled body, but that means they’re only looking at paperwork. The bodies are more interesting, even if they make Dean want to skip lunch. Still, it’s a nice change of pace.

Ed, the clerk, is a jolly old fogey. He’s not too sure how the computer system works, so it takes him a while to print out the things the boys asked for. Even then, Ed sent them to the wrong printer, so he tells the brothers he’ll be back in a jiffy.

“What _is_ a jiffy?” Dean asks. 

He asked rhetorically, but Sam answers. “A moment.”

“No, I know it means that, but does it _mean_?”

“That’s it. That’s what it means. A moment.”

Dean shakes his head and tsks. “You don’t know.”

“You asked!”

The two suspend their tiff in a jiff because an officer comes up with the files instead of ol’ Eddie. He extends his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Agents…”

“Martin,” Sam says, shaking his hand.

“Kaufman,” Dean supplies. When the officer tries to pull his hand away, Dean holds fast. “And you are?”

The officer laughs as Dean lets him go. With his now free hand, he taps the name on his chest. “Harris.”

Dean eyes the files under Harris’ arm. “You got something for us, Harris?”

“Yeah…” Harris looks the Winchesters up and down. He’s got a big smile, all teeth, when he taps the load of files. “I was telling Ed I don’t know why they’re wasting your time with this.” He leans forward like he’s letting them in on a secret. “These are lowlifes. For as many of ‘em that get reported, there’s just as many that don’t. People gave up on ‘em a while ago. For a reason.”

Sam puts his hands outs and shrugs with a light smile, “We go where we’re told.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees distantly, his eyes squarely on Officer Harris, trying to piece him out. “Can’t argue with the big dogs.”

“No.” Harris’ smile cracks at the edges, but holds. “You cannot.”

Dean flicks his gaze to the files.

Harris hands them over, staring Dean in the eye. “Good luck, Agents. Swing by if you need any help.”

“Will do,” Dean says, staring right back.

Once they’re in the car, Dean hands the files over to Sam and says, “Something’s off with that guy.”

“Is that what the pissing contest was about?” Sam starts thumbing through the files. “I don’t know. A lot of cops don’t like the Feds poking around. It makes them feel belittled.”

“Belittled. Right…,” Dean says as he starts the car, “Okay, Dr. Phil. Let’s get some food.”

* * *

Back at the motel, Dean lays on the bed, letting his legs splay off the foot of it, while Sam click-clacks away on his laptop. Dean stares at the ceiling. They got food an hour ago. Where are you at?

“Did she say when she was coming back?” Dean asks, peeking his head up as much as he can while still laying down.

Sam shakes his head, eyes glued to the screen. “You can call her,” he suggests.

Dean lays his head back down. “Where’d she go anyway? We have the car.”

Sam sighs, refusing to look at him. “I don’t know, Dean.”

Dean frowns at the ceiling. You had all eaten together since you linked up. You’d sit by the island in the morning and you’d sit with them in study at night. Outside of the bunker, of course, your schedules are different, but you not being there for lunch still doesn’t sit right with him. He has a bad feeling about it just like he had a bad feeling about that douche, Harris.

Dean sits up and rolls his neck. “Did you look up Harris?”

“Hmm?” Sam takes in what he asked and shakes his head. “No, I’m trying to figure out how these people are connected.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing yet.” Sam’s lips become a thin line.

Dean’s about to lay back down when the door opens and you enter. He didn’t realize he was tense until he feels himself finally relax seeing you safe. You’re okay. What took you so long? 

“Your food’s cold,” he says.

* * *

You just get through the door and you hear a gruff “Your food’s cold.” Dean points to the lone carry out box across from Sam. Look who’s talking to you. ‘Hello’ would be nice, but, sure, whatever. 

He’s seated on the edge of his bed, tie undone and loose around his neck. Sam has his suit jacket hung over a chair while he works on his laptop, the files they got this morning next to him on the table. Looks like they finished their food some time ago.

“Sorry,” you say mostly to Sam. You set your hobo clothes on the dresser, keeping Sam’s sweater in a ball so he doesn’t see the dirt you got on the sleeve, and take a seat across from him. “The police had to take statements.” You flip open your to-go container and practically drool. “I’m starving.”

“Police?” Sam asks worriedly.

“Umm Hmm,” you hum over a mouthful. You hadn’t eaten anything all day. This is delicious. There was a dead body, you try to say. “Er wa a ead ody.”

“A dead body?!” Dean translates. He stands up and admonishes you, “You should have called us.”

Sam looks to you to deny the claim. You don’t and he moves his laptop out of the way to get a better look at you. “Are you okay?” 

You swallow down another bite. “I’m fine. No one died. Not today, anyway.” You swirl your hand in the air as you chew. You impatiently try to say “It was a ghost”, but the words come out so garbled that you're sure neither one of them will understand you.

Dean does. He closes your to-go container to get your attention, standing over you. “You definitely should have called us.”

You look up at him and pause everything, chewing included. He sounds sincere and he looks…. upset? Hurt? It’s hard to decipher what Dean is feeling unless it’s blatant. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling now, he’s playing it close to the chest. You get the urge to apologize, but your mouth is full. Even though he would understand, it’s rude.

Sam’s eyes dart between you and Dean in a staring contest, waiting for either of you to fill him in. “How about you eat and _then_ we talk?” he politely suggests.

And the spell is broken. You start chewing again. 

“Sure,” you answer, looking pointedly at Dean’s hand holding down the lid. “Do you mind?” you ask shakily, going for bratty but your voice is too soft. He takes his hand away and goes back to sit on the bed. “Thanks.”

You’re more thankful for the space than anything. Something in his eyes reminded you of your more heated encounters. Your heart sped up out of habit and even though you weren’t in the bunker anymore and Sam was right there, you thought maybe Dean might kiss you. When you steal a glance at him now, whatever was there is gone. It was probably in your head. Your heart doesn’t agree, but old habits die hard.

“I’ve been going through the reports, trying to find some kind of connection,” Sam says, fanning out the files next to him for you to see. “These people are from all over the city and they’re last known whereabouts are _also_ all over. No discernable pattern to that. They’re different ages, different genders-”

“Different heights,” Dean adds.

Sam closes his eyes. “Different heights,” he parrots with a sigh. “Point is they don’t have anything in common.”

Your chewing slows down as you think. You asked Maude about the disappearances. _“You got a drug addict living on the street and they turn up missin’? Well… I ain’t too surprised.”_ You swallow your bite and ask Sam, “Did they do drugs?”

Sam flips through the reports. “Um…”

“You think it’s some ghost who’s anti-drugs?” Dean snidely remarks.

Maybe. You squint at him and take another bite. He’s acting more normal than this morning and you don’t trust it. You had readied your mental armor.

“Some of these people have possession charges,” Sam says. “But not all of ‘em.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’ll have more answers after you go to the morgue,” you say. At their surprised expressions, you remind them, “They found a dead body. They took it to the morgue. ...We’ll have to figure out how to sneak it out and burn it.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Dean waves his hands. “Who says we’re even going?”

“Um, why would you not?” you counter.

“Because I’m not body snatching on your say-so…?” Dean looks to Sam for back up on this.

Sam carefully chooses his words. “I don’t see the harm in checking it out.” Dean huffs and you silently gloat. “But we’re not doing anything drastic until we have proof.”

“I have proof!” you argue. Sam waits for you to go on. “Okay, so I didn’t have an EMF reader on me… I didn’t have anything on me. You should bring one with you.” Dean laughs as you flounder, so you yell at him, “You weren’t there!” and calmly explain to Sam, “There were signs.”

“Like cold spots?” Dean teases. He’s fucking smirking. 

Your heart is being stupid again. Just because he smirked like that while he kissed you, while his fingers trailed… You glare at him. “I know the difference between a ghost chill and cold weather.”

“No one’s saying you don’t,” Sam gently asserts. He gives Dean one of those silent conversation looks.

You point at Dean. “ _He’s_ saying I don’t.”

“No,” Sam says tersely, looking straight at his brother. “He isn’t. Right?” Sam’s tone leaves no room for disagreement.

Dean shrugs. “Whatever.” He starts fixing his tie and you try not to look at his neck. Or his hands. You need to stop looking at him. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Right now?” you frown. You just met up again. You didn’t get to tell them about the church yet.

“Right now,” Dean says. “I want to hit the strip club after this. You can stay here.”

You scowl at him. Screw him and his hands! What are you? Grounded? You’re not twelve.

Dean nods over to Sam. “You coming?” 

“Yeah.” Sam moves to get his coat off your chair, so you lean forward to allow it. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

You give a weak wave as they head out.

Alone again.

Cool.

Actually, hot.

You’re too hot in the room with your new jacket on. You ditched the clothes in your arms and dug in as soon as you saw the food. No one even commented on your outfit, you lament as you hang the coat on your chair. You thought the guys would get a kick out of your jacket. It looks like something they’d wear. It’s a little big on you, but probably still too small for them or you’d convince one of them to try it on. The mental image of Sam trying to get into a jacket that is too small for him makes you laugh. Maybe you’ll still try. 

This jacket, shabby though it may be, was pretty dope. You’d found a few forgotten singles in one of the pockets and that was a win in your book. After a wash or two, it wouldn’t smell like cigarettes and basement anymore. Yeah, that’s what you’ll do! You’ll do a little laundry. That way Sam never needs to see what happened to his sweater and you don’t smell like someone’s chain-smoking aunt.

* * *

The laundry room at the motel leaves something to be desired, you think. Maybe you’re spoiled from the bunker, but, c’mon, coin laundry? Coin laundry always sucks. You hope your stuff comes out dry. You’ve already got Sam’s sweater and some odd clothes in the machine. Your new jacket is next in line, so you grab it and feel something. You hold it out and check the pockets again. After all, you did find three dollars. 

Nothing in the side pockets. You pop open the chest pocket and dig in. Huh, a little baggie? Like an extra button? You take it out and find a small plastic bag of white powder.

“Woah…”

Okay. Tabling that for now. You felt something in your coat and it wasn’t a bag full of… some kind of drug. It’s gotta be drugs. No one puts non-drug, white powders in tiny baggies. You dig your hand back in and fish around, tucked in the corner is a card. The denim of the jacket is tough enough that you’re not surprised you didn’t notice. The chest lays flat as does the card and with the plush lining, you’d never feel it. You take out an I.D. 

“Huh.”

You check the other breast pocket just to be sure, but it’s empty, and then you toss in the coat and start the washer. Leaning against the folding table as the washer spins, you look over the card. You don’t know what the powder is, but you’ve seen an I.D. before. It’s Tennessee, not expired. You’re not sure where the address is in relation to here, but you could check it out. Your eyes slip back to the baggie you found. Maybe this person isn’t someone you want to meet. You flick the card a couple times.

“Tucker Adams,” you read aloud. You tap the card again. “Tucker… Adams....”

* * *

Once Sam and Dean reach the hospital they get into an argument about where the morgue is. Dean insists he knows where it is, even though neither of them have ever been to this hospital. To which Sam argues they need more than “in the basement.” Eventually, Dean asks the nearest nurse for directions. The nurse they talk to bubbles with excitement when she sees their badges, quickly spouts off directions, and gushes about the crime shows she watches.

“Oh!” The nurse looks both ways down the hall before she leans in and whispers excitedly. “Is it a serial killer?”

“That’s classified,” Dean says, adding a wink.

She covers her mouth to hide her reaction. Then, straight faced, she whispers, “What’s their M.O.?”

“That’s actually classified,” Sam interjects. He flashes a smile at her and nods a goodbye. “Thank you for your help.”

“D’you hear that?” Dean asks Sam as they head to the elevator. 

“I heard her,” Sam says tiredly, pressing the call button.

Dean taps his brother’s chest as they step in. “She said it’s in the basement.”

“Yep.” Sam pops the ‘P’ and the doors close. 

The brothers get to the lower level, turn where they were instructed, and head through the morgue’s door.

The morgue technician looks up and blinks in confusion. Then, she gets a flash of realization, snaps her fingers, and points a finger gun at them. “You must be the FBI agents.”

The brothers look at each other.

“I got a call,” the tech explains. “So it’s a serial killer?”

Sam’s face says ‘I told you so.’ Dean ignores him and says, “Possibly. We’re here to rule that out.”

The tech nods, a little disappointed. “Oh, of course. I ran dental records to get an ID.”

She heads over to her desk and grabs a clipboard.

“Tucker Adams,” the morgue tech reads off the clipboard. She flips to the next page. “He’d been in and out of jail for possession. He just finished his parole a few months ago.” 

She lets the page fall and hands the entire clipboard to Dean.

“Kind of unfortunate,” she goes on, crossing her arms and looking over to the wall of drawers. “I’m sure his P.O. would have reported him missing. Maybe we could have found him.”

Dean passes the clipboard to Sam.

“I can run a tox screen. Something might come up,” the tech continues. “If he OD’ed, we’d know and, with this level of decomp, I’ll take all the help I can get. C.O.D. will be hard to pin down otherwise. Especially since scavengers got to him. Or something...”

Sam skims through the report and asks without looking up, “What do you mean?”

“It’s weird.” The morgue tech snaps gloves on and pulls out the body. 

Sam’s still looking at the file when she flips the sheet down. Dean clenches his jaw and he’s glad he ate before coming here. He would’ve lost his appetite.

Her gloved hands glide over the body, pointing as she goes, hovering but never touching. “Animals usually go for the belly or the face, maybe pick off a finger, take it back with them.”

Sam looks up and covers his mouth with a fist.

Her pristine white gloves contrast the garish display of red and rot. “His heart is missing.” She sees their reactions and apologetically lifts the sheet back over the body. “Like I said. Weird.”

“There were animal attacks earlier this month. Did you examine those bodies as well?” Sam asks. She nods and he adds, “Anything weird about them?”

“Missing hearts,” Dean clarifies.

The tech slips off her gloves and tosses them in a biohazard bin. “Um… Not that I remember. I’d have to look.” She snaps her fingers and points at them again. “One didn’t! At least one definitely didn’t. It was an unidentified female, 20s to 30s, but she didn’t have a heart.”

She isn’t looking at the brothers, too wrapped up in thought, to see that they had heard enough.

“She was missing a lot,” the tech continues. “I think my best guess was a bear, but those are up north.” She brought her hands up. “Something strong enough to crack the ribs cage for sure. Her entire chest and abdomen was all-”

“Thank you,” Sam interrupts, effectively stopping her disturbing gesture. He hands her a card with his number. “Give us a call if you get any more weird cases.”

She takes the card, reads it over. “Hearts missing.”

“Yeah, but keep that hushed,” Dean says. “If anyone asks, we officially ruled this out.”

The morgue technician nods slowly, a coy smile curling her lips. “Got it.”

“Do you have a copy of the case report you were talking about? The-?” Sam reluctantly puts his hands up by his chest, mimicking her exploding gesture. She happily nods and heads to her desk and Sam follows, nodding to Dean when her back is turned.

Dean stays by the body and takes the EMF reader out of his jacket. Good thing Sam packed the jacket. It’s cold outside and it’s always cold in morgues. No cold spikes here though. He checks out the reader. No activity either. 

“Congrats,” Dean mutters to the body, tucking the EMF reader away. “Cremations off the table.” The sheet may cover the gore, but Dean’s already knows under what’s underneath. Open casket is so far off the table, it’s on the floor. “Closed casket, it is.”

* * *

The dryer was still going, so you decided to wait in the room. And use Sam’s computer. You looked through what Sam was working on, searching ‘Tucker Adams’, and got no results. Now that you’re looking though, you see the sheer number of recent missing persons. When will the real FBI show up? 

You try searching ‘Tucker Adams’ on the internet. That’s not helpful either. You get hits on the name, but none of them are him. Sam showed you something about getting into government records before, but it sounded sketchy then and you don’t remember how the hell he did it. So you call him.

“Hey,” Sam greets. “What’s up?”

“I was just trying to look something up on your computer.”

You hear Dean in the background, “Who is that?” Sam must mouth the answer because you don’t hear him but you hear Dean ask “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. De- Sorry. You want to use my computer?”

Dean’s muffled complaint makes it through. “She can use it, but I can’t?”

You bite back a smile. “How do I make it so I can look through federal databases? I want to look up someone’s records. I have a name and address, but I want more than that.”

“Oh….” Sam drawls in realization. “We’d need an encrypted network. I have that at the bunker, but I’m using the motel’s wifi here. If you went into any databases right now, you’d get caught and they’d know exactly where you are.”

“Dammit.” You close the laptop and head back out to the laundry room. There’s more pacing room in there and you like pacing to think.

“You said you have a name. What is it? We can try to look it up at the station later. I know a guy there who could find it in a jiffy.”

You get from Sam’s tone that he said the last part for Dean, but you don’t get the joke. “A jiffy?” you chuckle. “Okay. Have him look up Tucker Adams.”

The line goes quiet.

“Sam? You still there?” You pull your phone away from your ear to make sure you’re still connected.

“Where’d you get that name?” Sam asks seriously.

“I have his coat.”

“You have Tucker Adams’ coat,” he repeats slowly. You guess for Dean’s benefit. “How do you know it’s his?”

“His I.D. was in the pocket.”

“His I.D. was in the pocket,” Sam repeats.

“Put me on speaker phone! Why are you being so weird? Who is Tucker Adams? Do you know him?”

“Yeah.” You hear Dean’s smirk. “He’s a heartless son of a bitch.”

“Dean…,” Sam sighs. “He’s dead. Tucker Adams? He was the body they found. His heart was ripped out.”

BZZZZZZ!!

You yelp. The boys clamor over the phone and you can’t make out what they’re saying since they’re talking over each other. You put your hand over your heart and laugh. “I’m fine. I’m fine. The dryer went off.” You shake your head. “It scared me.”

“I thought I told you to stay in the room,” Dean gripes.

“I’m doing laundry,” you snap right back. “Calm down.” 

“We’re almost at Temptations.” Sam’s voice is clearer, so you must be off speaker. “You gonna be okay?” he teases.

“Yeah. I’ll survive. I’ll let you go. We can talk later.”

“Yeah and you can tell us where you got that coat.” You both laugh and he signs off, “ Later.”

You gather the clothes out of the dryer, folding them until you get to your jacket. _“...where you got that coat.”_ You didn’t have an EMF reader on you earlier. You pick up your phone and dial.

“Hello?” a cheery voice answers.

“Hey, Maude. You busy?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is a departure from the strictly Reader Perspective. I wanted it to follow an episode feel where the camera follows different main characters. Hopefully that translates. I think of the Reader as an insert character in a Supernatural episode. So you're both "viewer" and reader, if that makes sense. Because otherwise, the reader would not be privy to all these Dean/Sam Adventures.
> 
> I love getting comments!!! You guys fill my soul! Even bad ones. I don't take it heart like you're calling me bad, but I try to improve my writing. Of COURSE, I want you gush about you loving it. You WOULDN'T want that?! Give me validation.
> 
> Shout out to Winchesters_Queen! You da real MVP! Love you forever!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Winchesters check out the strip club, you investigate a hunch of your own.

Dean and Sam slump out of the Impala, their breath hanging in the chilled air. They walk up to the doorman and flash their badges in unison.

“Agent Kaufman,” Dean says. “This is Agent Martin. Can you show us to someone in charge?”

The doorman leads them inside, motioning for them to wait, and heads into the back.

“This place is alright,” Dean says with a smile, bobbing his head to the music and mouthing the lyrics.

Sam looks around the empty strip club. There are no guests. There’s one girl onstage, lazily spinning around. She’s more practicing than anything. The other girls are spread out, sitting around the club. Dean is the only person happy to be here. “Seriously?”

“Hello!” bellows a heavy set woman. Her open arms encourage the boys closer. Soon enough, beyond their better judgement, they’re both copying her cheek kisses before they think better of it. “How can I help you?”

Dean’s attention goes to the girl on stage not because she’s dancing, but because she’s stopped. She watches him and Sam guardedly. Her arms cross over her body as she shrinks under the flashing lights. Taking a look around, the other girls have a similar reaction.

Since Dean isn’t speaking up, Sam explains, “We’re here investigating the disappearance of Cynthia Clairemont. Could we ask you a few questions?”

All the girls have huddled together, Dean notices, whispering to each other. When Dean makes eye contact with one of them, she shoots her head down.

The woman’s sunny disposition shifts and her customer service voice disappears. “We can talk in my office. Follow me.”

* * *

The moon illuminates the car. Small towns are great for this, you think. Sometimes, on cloudy nights with the lack of streetlights, you might struggle to see, but when the moon is high and bright, the world is nearly as bright as day. 

“You know,” Maude jokes, “when you said you wanted to go out, I didn’t think you meant you wanted to go back to church.”

Maude’s actual car is a two door sedan and is much messier than the van. The backseat is full of clothes and shoes. You spied a baseball bat back there too. Even now, she fishes something out of the side of her seat and tosses it back to join her hoard. You don’t know her well enough to tell if she’s actually disappointed but you suspect she is. She’d been bouncing in her seat when she picked you up at the motel.

You check that the EMF reader in your pocket hasn’t fallen out and, with the moon rising in the sky, you assure Maude, “We’ll be quick." 

Dean’s coat pockets land awkwardly on you. You feel like everything in the side pocket is going to fall out and be lost in the abyss that is Maude’s car. The EMF reader didn’t get anything from Tucker’s coat, but, worried that might be a fluke, to be safe, you left it at the motel. ...Which left you without a coat again. 

Dean’s day-to-day jacket was free. The army style of it clashed with the suits and ties he and Sam were sporting tonight. He’s not going to miss it, you think, but you still feel like you’re stealing, especially when you pull the collar up as you exit the car and cross New Hope’s parking lot. His coat doesn’t smell like basement and cigarettes; it smells like him.

The plot is still torn up from when police dug the body out, but the bushes and extra dirt have been straightened out. The plants rest all in a neat line. Their leaves shiver in the breeze. You flip the switch and the EMF reader starts a slow, steady beep. Carefully, you walk over to the plot, waving the device over the area.

“What’s that?” Maude asks.

“It tells me if ghosts are around.”

She pauses, letting you trek on ahead. “Oh, Cherry… Ghosts aren’t real.” 

You’re not getting anything on the reader. Smelling Dean tricks your brain into thinking he’s here to argue with. Your imagination doesn’t help.  _ “There were signs.” “Like cold spots?” _ You exhale in a ‘hah’ to see your breath. It fogs up in the air, but this morning your breath had plumed like a thick smoke. It  _ had _ , you argue to no one.

“Let’s check the basement,” you say, already heading to the backdoor.

“I don’t have keys,” Maude confesses. She saddles up next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulder and gives you a little hug. “C’mon. Let’s get you a drink.”

No keys. Damn. You test the handle just because and- “It’s open,” you remark and step inside.

* * *

Temptation’s owner, Galina, is compliant on paper, but in practice she’s a brick wall. Dean tries to put the woman who greeted them so warmly and this woman together and his brain keeps telling him the math is wrong. She gives answers that don’t feel right, but, by God, the woman has no tell. She’d kill at poker.

“Is there anyone else here who worked that night?” Sam asks. Talking to a wall is getting to him too. “Maybe we could talk to them.”

Galina ponders over the question which shouldn’t be difficult and shouldn’t take this long. She sits back in her chair with Sam and Dean standing across her desk. They’re interrogating her and it feels like she’s the one pulling the strings. “There’s nothing else to know. Anyone will tell you exactly what I told you.”

“I’m sure they will,” Dean mutters. He bets she’s got them all on the same script, but people don’t just vanish out of thin air and security cameras don’t conveniently malfunction. “We’d like to take a look around, if that’s alright.” Anticipating hesitation, he adds casually, “Obstruction of justice has a sentence of- What is it? Three years?”

“Five,” Sam corrects. “On average.”

Galina’s red lips pull back in a smile. She’s good. It looks real. “Look all you want, but this is a business; my girls are busy.” She turns her body away from them to face her computer. “So am I. Was there anything else you needed, Agents?”

The two brothers shake their heads.

“Off you go then,” she says, with a bright smile, even shooing them away.

Sam and Dean leave and Galina’s heavy office door shuts behind them automatically.

“What the hell was that?” Dean hisses, quietly, so she doesn’t hear.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“She can’t-” Dean mimics the shooing gesture. “We’re FBI,” he argues.

Sam gives him a look saying, ‘We’re not FBI.’

Dean responds with a frustrated huff, shorthand for ‘She doesn’t know that.’

“So what are we looking for?” Sam asks.

Dean snaps, “I don’t know.” He takes a second and calms down a bit, not much. “Something.”

Sam doesn’t push. Instead, he nods and says, “Alright. Let’s split up.”

Dean moves to head back to the main lobby. The door opens and 80s rock pumps into the hallway. He gets a split moment glimpse of the stage -the main lobby is a lot more lively now- before Sam stops him.

“I’ll take the front of house,” Sam insists. “You can check the back.”

“Oh, can I? Glad I have your permission,” Dean says sarcastically.

“You’re the one who went braindead when you saw a girl on stage.”

Sammy’s blatantly teasing him, but he doesn’t even give Dean the decency of a retort because the younger brother has slipped past, leaving another door to slam in Dean’s face. Dean huffs to himself before heading down the hallway to check things out.

* * *

“We oughta go.” Maude’s voice wavers in the pitch black. “The lights ain’t working… We ‘bout to break our necks going down these stairs.”

She’s holding onto your arm for stability as you two head into the basement. Your flashlight guides the way. “The breaker’s in the basement, right? We find that and then, boom, lights are back on.”

Maude doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t tug you backwards, so you take that as a ‘yes’.

Once you’re at the foot of the stairs, you reach back in Dean’s jacket for your EMF reader. You let the flashlight point down and about as you fumble around. The LEDs flicker to life and you step forward with the device, your flashlight still pointed at the ground.

Damn. Still nothing.

“I can hold it,” Maude nervously offers. She’s being polite, so you smile. She means ‘Give me the damn flashlight if you’re not going to use it right.’

You have your back to her as you pass the torch and Maude takes it, you assume, happily. The LEDs of the reader blink and tick, evening out at a normal level. Maude moves the flashlight to wash over you, then turns it away as she looks around the room. 

“We all done?” Maude asks, leaving the ‘please say yes’ silent. The flashlight shakes in her hands.

“Yeah, we’re-” You stop mid sentence. 

Something is walking past you. 

Blindly you punch out. Fuck! That was the hand with the EMF reader. You hope it’s not busted. A grunt fills the air followed by stuff falling. Maude screams and flips back over to you, the light washing over you and your foe.

“Chet!” Maude yells. “What the hell are you sneaking around in the dark for?”

“I could see good enough,” Chet argues.

Your hit made him drop a box. The contents have spilt all over. You bend down to pick some of it up. It’s all hodge-podge things. As Flashlight Carrier, Maude takes her duty of lighting the scene seriously, moving it so you or Chet can better see what you’re reaching for.

“What are you ladies doing here?” he asks casually.

“Huntin’ ghosts,” Maude answers as you say, “Looking for the breaker.” Since you talked over each other, neither answer got through.

“Cherry here is afraid of ghosts,” Maude explains, laughing nervously as if she isn’t scared. “We’re huntin’ ‘em.”

“Is that right?” Chet marvels.

“Umm hmm,” you hum in forced agreement. He hands you a piece of plastic and you realize it’s a piece of your EMF reader. Silently, you take it.

With his stuff cleaned up, Chet bends to pick his box back up and Maude shines the light more clearly on it. It’s a cardboard box recycled from someone’s online purchase. Tucker’s coat was in that box.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, more accusatory than you mean.

“Day off doesn’t suit me,” you hear him chuckle as he heads out of the flashlight’s range. Then you hear him flip the breakers. The lights come on for a moment and then die. “Thought I’d fix the lights real quick. That ain’t turned so good.”

Maude chuckles along with him, but you’re not sold on him.

“Why the box then?” you ask.

Chet starts up the stairs and Maude follows him. “Figured I could clean out some stuff while I’m here. I could see well enough.”

Maude playfully bats his arm. “I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. You were going ‘round blind.”

On the main floor, with the large windows, the moonlight pours in and you see Chet smile, “Maybe.” 

He leads you both to the door you came in, setting down the box to hold the door open for you and Maude. Once you’re all out, he locks the door. You couldn’t get a good look at him in the basement, but out in the moonlight, you can. He’s tall with broad shoulders and strong arms. It’s not surprising that he works with his hands. He reminds you of a lumberjack, especially with his scruff.

He catches you watching him as you all walk back to your cars and looks down bashfully. He slips open the side door of the van, loads the box, and walks around to the driver’s seat, coming eye-to-eye with you and Maude again.

“Well, I’ll leave you, ladies.” He nods at you. “Ma’am. Enjoy your ghost huntin’.” He taps the roof and heads in the van.

Maude is tight-lipped as he pulls away, but once you both sit and shut the doors, she gushes, “So what do you think?”

You’re messing with your EMF reader, snapping some pieces back on before you turn it on. “Of…?,” you ask. It lights up still, so that’s good.

Maude hits your shoulder. “Of Chet!” she laughs.

“Oh, uh…” You think back to what he looked like. “He’s nice.” You hear a crackle from the reader and bring it to your ear. “If you’re into that,” you add, shaking the device and unfortunately, hearing a rattle.

Maude’s mouth makes a little ‘o’. “Oh, you’re gay?”

“Huh? No,” you laugh. “I like men.”

“Then, girl, are you blind?” Maude shakes her head and starts the engine. “I haven’t been here in the summer yet, but word is he takes his shirt off. I’mma post a lemonade stand right outside.” She taps the last three syllables out on the steering wheel.

Alright. She’s got you hooked. You haven’t gushed about boys in so long. You tuck the EMF reader away and turn towards her. “If you like him so much, why don’t you make a move?”

“I can’t,” she bashfully argues. “Where are we headed?”

Maude is something else. You might as well be a stranger to her and she’s willing to drive you anywhere, probably tag along just about anywhere too. “Let’s get that drink,” you say. “And why not?”

“He just got out of a relationship!,” Maude gushes as she drives. “And I know, who would leave him? But she did. Ran off to some big city or something. See, she did it normal. I’m from Nashville, so me living here now is all backwards.”

Her smile fades the tiniest bit as she continues, “But there’s too many people there. Too much history. You move to a new place and it’s like… you can be someone else. You know?”

“Yeah, no, for sure… I-” You bite your lip. “I totally get what you’re saying.”

Maude beams once more. “You don’t gotta let me prattle on. Tell me ‘bout yourself! You got anyone special?”

* * *

Dean could always hear the music thrumming through the wall, but it gets louder as he walks, to the point he can make out the song.

“Judas Priest?!” he says under his breath. 

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam doesn’t even appreciate this. His little brother doesn’t appreciate a badass soundtrack to go with a shit job. Sammy’s got the girls and the tunes. Dean’s got empty hallways. Real eventful. 

Dean’s breath comes out like fog. A chilled wind funnels in from somewhere. He follows the cold spill to a backdoor just as it shuts with a heavy thud. It’s one of those emergency exit doors -cold air peeks along in with the smell of cigarettes- and it’s propped open. Smoke break, he figures. Nothing to see.

The music is at its loudest back here and it’s like he’s out there. He  _ should _ be. This is a classic, he thinks. Dean decides to leave whoever to their cigarette and head in, get Sammy, and go when he notices a door. It’s the kind of door that looks like it leads outside, a strong thick wood, but Dean knows that can’t be. The exit door is too close. That mental blueprint doesn’t add up.

Dean steps closer and sees the wall around the door is patched up. There’s a short hallway and a curtain to his left. The music pounds and the song shifts over, but Dean doesn’t notice. New door. Broken wall. So someone kicked the door in, he thinks. He kneels down to inspect the patch job, looks over to the other side, and then up to the top corners. And took the hinges and wall with it?

He stands up with a sigh, mulling over this find. As someone who has kicked a door or two down in his day, he knows a B and E when he sees one. The door might rip off the hinges, he thinks. He taps the wall. It’s solid. Cement maybe? Yeah, he thinks, suspicions confirmed. Even if he and Sam did it together, they weren’t taking the wall with them. He taps the door in a simple ‘knock knock’

“I told you,” Galina says from behind him. How the hell did she walk so quiet in heels? “My girls are busy,” she reminds, red lips pulled in an easy smile.

Girls? Dean turns his head back to the unmarked door, looks over to the hallway and curtain. He’s right by the stage. This must be a dressing room. So someone tried to see the girls after hours? That theory doesn’t sit right.

“You didn’t mention a break in,” Dean says, facing Galina.

The poker champ doesn’t flinch. “One of the girls locked us out. Never had the key to that door. So I broke it down.”

Dean nods. Galina’s a broad gal, certainly a powerhouse of a woman, and he’s sure she throws a mean right hook. There’s still no way she broke that door down and took cement with her. She could do pilates or whatever it is she does all she wants, but no  _ human _ could do that.

So he’s stuck in a hallway with two theories: either she really did karate chop through cement or… she knows who  _ did _ . Either she’s their mark or she’s protecting them. It’s not like he’s going to get her to admit anything. Not here. Not now. Why’d he get the hallway? Sammy’s got the girls and… 

Sammy’s got the girls.

Galina doesn’t want them talking to the girls. Dean cranes his head back to the door, imagining women on the other side, ready to spill. If the Watchful Ruler is back here with Dean that means she’s not on the floor with Sam. C’mon, Sammy, he thinks, hoping somehow his brother hears.

“Hinges and all,” Dean marvels, schooling his face before he turns back to her. “Impressive.” He wags his finger back at the door. “Nice upgrade. Tough. But, uh, I gotta let you know, I’ve done a little handiwork myself.” He tucks his hands into his coat pockets and shrugs.

Galina raises her brows in a ‘Oh, have you?’ gesture.

Dean inwardly preens at her taking the bait. He shoots her a pained smile, “Door’s great.” He takes one hand out of his pocket and gestures to the doorway. “But all this around it…?” Dean winces and sucks his teeth in a hiss.

Galina is less impressed.

“Find the right weak spot,” he continues, dropping the coy act, “and one push is all it takes to get through.” Then, he smiles easy, shrugging innocently. “Door’s really just in the way at that point.”

Galina smiles, all teeth. “You’re cute.” She keeps up the peppy tone even as she adds, “You don’t have a warrant which means you can only search my property with my permission. It’s time for you to go.”

* * *

Sam has had no luck getting these women to talk to him. With the way, they dramatically steer clear of him, he’s happy Dean’s not here. He knows his brother would say something smart like “Ladies can’t wait to get away from you.” He doesn’t need teasing to make him feel worse. He knows this is going poorly.

“Please,” he beseeches as Girl #10 tries to leave. “Anything you could tell us would help. We’re trying to get Cynthia back.”

The girl snaps back, “She’s  _ gone _ .” 

Sam is floored by the first genuine response of the night. He opens his mouth to press, but her eyes go wide and she mutters out a ‘I have to go.’ So much for that lead. Still… It’s something.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, ‘Dean’ lighting up the screen. Galina emerges from the back room, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Welcome’s officially worn out,” Dean warns.

“I see her.”

* * *

Dean stands alone outside the emergency exit, the smell of cigarette smoke stuck in the air. He fans it away as he talks on the phone, “Tell me you got something.”

“Not much.”

“Come on, Sammy. I taught you how to talk to girls,” Dean teases. He can’t see his brother’s face, but he hears him sigh. Dean smirks to himself.

“I hate you… Wait. Where are you?”

Dean eyes the dumpster and the woods surrounding the back of the strip club. The asphalt is dingy from years of garbage grime leaking out. “Took the V.I.P. exit. I’ll swing around.”

Dean hangs up and sighs. His breath fans out like thick smoke. He pulls his jacket tighter around him and heads to the car.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BITCHES!!! I AM CRYING!!! These comments are beautiful. They inspire me! They push me! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone leaving kudos on this story. Thank you to everyone commenting. Thanks for reading, honestly. I never wrote anything like this before, so it's been hard, but I will say I am the MOST PROUD of this chapter. I really popped off. I did that. I didn't have to go so hard, but I did and I will not apologize.
> 
> If you want to have a "soundtrack" I imagined 'Chains' by the Haxans playing for a moment as Maude and Reader pull up to the church and 'You Got Another Thing Coming' by Judas Priest playing while Dean is at Temptations. When Sam and Dean first get in the club, I imagined 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' because sorry, not sorry that IS MY STRIPPER SONG! Isn't it everybody's?!?!
> 
> It is my goal to finish. this. damn. story. I am so excited to have it all done and be able to look back on it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Maude have a girl's night and you come back to the motel with a mission.

The drive to Memphis is quick. It’s strange to be in a bigger city so fast, you think. It feels like you’re farther away than you are. The bar Maude took you to is nicer than what you typically frequent, but the Monday Night Crowd is about the caliber you’re used to. 

The two of you giggling and smiling are a higher energy than the current clientele. You don’t give a shit. This is awesome. You catch your breath from laughing so hard and Maude dabs the tears off her face.

“He totally heard us coming!” you reiterate. “He didn’t say anything!”

“He’s shy!” Maude wheezes.

You sip your drink, happy that this bartender knows how to make something more complicated than rum and coke. You’ve probably enjoyed your drink a little too much because your straw comes up empty already. You should probably start working on the water you ordered with it. That glass is still full.

Maude fans her face and takes a sip of her drink. “That is my future husband you’re talking about. Can’t believe you hit him in the face.”

“Not the face,” you argue, trying to remember what it felt like you hit. “His… shoulder. Maybe.”

Maude chuckles and takes a bigger gulp of her drink to catch up to you. “What about your man? You said you work together…?”

“Uh… yeah.” You take another drink of water to buy time, but that doesn’t give you much. “We’re all here on a-” Not case. Don’t say case. “Job. We’re freelancers. Do a little of this. Little of that.”

Maude moves onto her water too. “All? Is it a big company?”

You shake your head. “I work with him and his brother. It’s just us.”

Maude nods and patiently waits for you to go on. She’s a sweetheart. For as much as she can go off on tangents, she is a great listener. You can't talk about Dean _with_ Dean and you're sure as hell not going to talk to Sam about any of it.

“It’s weird,” you admit. “I told you we’re just hooking up. But now I’m in this motel room with him and his brother-”

“Oh, that’s awkward.”

“It is!” you agree, ecstatic to have someone to talk to about this. “And I don’t want Sam to know.”

“Sam’s the brother,” Maude states, waiting for clarification.

You nod as you continue, “‘Cause that’d be weird and then it’s like… It's like it’s a thing. And-” You fiddle with your straw. “-we’re not a thing.”

“But you like him,” Maude states, again for clarification.

“I mean… He’s attractive,” you start. Then you smile and shake your head, swirling your straw around your water glass. “But he knows it. Little shit smirks and I know he’s got something to say! Sometimes I could just-" You mime choking an invisible person and then cut yourself off with a laugh. “He’s… He's such a dork too. Don’t let him fool you.”

You look up to find Maude grinning as she sips her water.

“I don’t like him,” you blurt out. “I mean, I like him, but I don’t like him like him. … God, I sound like I’m in highschool.” You sink down until your head is on the bar top.

Maude laughs at your plight. “Sounds like you’re sweet on him. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah… Maybe.” You turn your head so you can see her, but keep your cheek pressed against the bar. “But it doesn’t matter. Once we don’t work together anymore, it’ll all be over.”

Maude touches your shoulder. “Hey. People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” she says sagely, then goes back to her water. “Saw that on a poster. Ain’t that so clever?”

You sit back up.

“I really believe that,” Maude says. “God puts people in your path and, hey, it might not be forever-” She looks you in the eye, smiling warmly. “-but it’s not for nothing.”

Her smile is infectious and you want to believe her: that something temporary can be worth something. You've been so hung up that what you have with Dean will end that you've been too guarded to let yourself be happy. You can't even admit you like him.

“Is that why you helped me this morning?” you ask, hoping to distract yourself.

Maude nods and holds her head high. “God put you in my path, didn’t he?”

You laugh. "Maybe."

Dean’s jacket hangs on the back of your chair and Maude leans over to your chair, tugging the sleeve. “What’s all this anyway? What happened to the coat you got?”

You bite your lip and look at Maude. “This is _his_ coat.”

Maude throws her arms up and you cackle. “Cherry!” she exclaims. “Cheese and crackers, I am done with you. You are wearing this man’s coat?” She puts her hands on the bar and pushes up. “Bartender! Can I get another drink for the bride-to-be, please?!”

You go to tell her to quiet down, but she plops down.

“Shh,” she hushes. “I know somebody heard me say that. You want a free drink or not?”

You sit back in your chair and, sure enough, a drink is set in front of each of you.

“From the gentleman,” the bartender says, motioning to a Monday Night regular who raises his glass in a cheer.

You and Maude do the same back to him and then turn to each other.

Maude raises her glass triumphantly. “To you and-! ...What’s his name again?”

* * *

“Dean,” Sam calls, trying to get his brother’s attention. “Are you listening?”

Dean looks up from his phone. He has your number pulled up -has had it pulled up for a while- ready to hit send and make the call, but hasn't. When he and Sam got back, you weren’t there. Your coat was laid out on the bed with the I.D. you found next to it. I’ll be damned, Dean thought, reading ‘Tucker Adams’ with his own eyes. Sam orders pizza while they change out of the fed suits and compare notes from the club. The delivery driver beats you back to the room. And, Dean thinks, this is the second meal you’ve missed today.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I heard you,” Dean sighs, tucking his phone away. Then he stands up and rubs his temple. “We got bupkis.”

“Not-” Sam’s face scrunches in dissatisfaction. “- _bupkis_.”

Dean dryly agrees, “Right.”

Sam shoots him a weak glare. “Will you just call her so you can stop being pissy?”

“I’m not-” Dean starts, but then he shoos Sam’s response away and goes for his coat. It’s not where he left it. Fan-fucking-tastic, Dean thinks and snags the coat he’s worn with his suit all day. “I’m getting some air.”

"Okay," Sam says mockingly behind his back. 

* * *

You give a big hug to Maude before getting out of the car.

“Remember,” Maude says, holding out a fist, extending her pinky.

You link up your pinky with hers and shake. “We’re going big,” you promise.

You wave as she pulls off. Maude is so much fun. You feel great! You had to finish her drink along with yours so she’d be okay to drive. That regular was so nice! You didn’t pay for anything. Well… you also didn’t get much. Whew, you feel it though. You weren’t normally such a lightweight, but then again, you’d only eaten once today.

The cold air feels amazing on your heated skin, so you’re enjoying your walk back to the room when you see Dean. You watch him pull his phone to his ear. He turns to look at you just as your phone buzzes and you playfully answer anyway, “Hello?”

Dean hangs up. Rude. “Where were you?” he asks. Then he shakes his head. “Forget it. We got food-”

“You got food?!” you gush. “You’re the best.”

He squints at you. “Were you drinking?”

You slow your roll. How does he know already? You’re not that bad. “A little…”

“We’re on a case,” he reminds.

“I knooow,” you whine, moving in close. “I didn’t mean to. I told her I was working and then she’s like ‘I’m working tomorrow morning too’ and…” You wrap your arms around his neck and add, “She’s a bad influence.”

“I…” His arms were stuck at his sides at first, but now, he wraps them around your waist. “Didn’t know you had friends here.”

You bury your face in his chest. “Don’t be mad,” you mumble into him. You feel his chest rumble with a laugh.

“Wh-?” He tugs at your jacket, _his_ jacket, testing the material. “Why are you wearing my coat?”

“I think my coat is haunted.” You push off his chest. “And it smells like cigarettes still. And I washed it!”

Dean is laughing at you. He is laughing at you and your (possibly) haunted coat. This is the look you were telling Maude about! He’s going to say something mean now. You know it.

“Let’s get you inside, babygirl,” he says, guiding you to the room with his hand on your lower back.

Or that, you think, your heart fluttering. He could say something like that.

* * *

Dean opens the door to the room like he’s a gameshow host showing off a prize. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

You pout. That’s a saying for bad things. You’re not a bad thing.

“Hel-lo,” Sam greets and he’s laughing at you too. Oh, great. “Fun night?”

“I was investigating,” you counter rationally. You go for your EMF reader. “I went to the church, but I couldn’t-” The reader fumbles out of your hand, falling for the second time tonight. “Your pockets suck! I hate your coat.”

Dean’s fingertips brush the back of your neck and you shiver. “That’s why I wear it,” he says, “and you don’t.” He gently tugs back, helping you out of it. 

He bends for your EMF reader next and you make a dismissive gesture. “I already broke it on Chet or whatever.” Then, you catch a whiff of the pizza and hurriedly take a seat.

Sam, tickled by this development, fully abandons his laptop. “Who’s Chet?”

You gobble down a piece, waving your hand. “Some weird guy Maude’s in love with.” 

You miss Sam mouth ‘Maude?’ to Dean and Dean shrugging in response.

A glass of water appears by you. “Thank you,” you say reflexively.

Dean huffs a laugh. “No problem.”

“You were at the church...,” Sam reminds. You’re too busy eating to notice his cheeky grin.

“Uh huh. Looking for ghosts. Didn’t find any.”

“No shit,” Dean says. You look over to the bed and he’s fiddling with all the pieces he’s picked up off the floor. “This thing is busted.”

“ _Before_ that,” you argue, sticking your tongue out at him. You turn back to Sam. “Did you guys find things?”

“Maybe,” Sam answers. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you agree happily, drinking your water. 

“I’m…” Sam stands up and grabs his room key. “Actually gonna be right back.”

“Okay,” you agree again. Man, water is good. 

The door opens and shuts and you hear Sam walk off. This is the first time you and Dean have been alone together this trip. Just as you think that you look at him. The last time you were alone together was back at the bunker and now that you think about it you should have let Sam do the research himself, should have enjoyed a little more time in the weird safari room. You swallow thickly.

“You all done?” Dean asks. He nods to the pizza box.

Oh. The pizza. Yeah. You’re done with the pizza. You give yourself a quick pep talk in your head. You made a pact with Maude: if she was gonna make a move on Chet, you had to make a move on Dean. Sam just left and you realize what might be your only shot is right in front of you. Time to go big or go home.

You stand up and walk over to Dean, straddling him at the foot of the bed. He lets you. You slot in together so easily. His hands move to your hips and you gently rest your hands on his chest as he watches you with guarded curiosity. This is so easy. Why can’t it stay easy like this?

“God put you in my path,” you shakily start.

Dean recoils from you. “ _What_?”

DAMMIT! You suck at this!

“I don’t know!” you argue. “I didn’t read the poster. It goes, like, God does... something?” You shake your head and cover your face with your hands. “Maude told me this saying. Whatever.” 

Going big. C’mon, self.

You wrap your arms around his neck to coax him back closer and he allows it. Your heart pounds and you bite your lip. “I...I know this isn’t forever. But I’m not ready for it to end just yet.”

Your pulse thrums. You don’t feel tipsy anymore, sobered from time and the reality that you said words you can’t take back. He hasn’t said anything.

With your last shred of courage, you ask, “Are you?”

He doesn’t say anything. You start bracing yourself for how much this is going to hurt. You already feel the pain setting in while you stare into his pretty eyes with his stupid eyelashes. You’re so stupid. You’re in the middle of a case. You should never have brought it up.

He pulls your face down to him and kisses you. Relief floods through you. You kiss him back with all your might. Too much might. You end up pushing him fully down onto the bed, but neither of you break apart. His thumb runs across your jaw as he cradles your face. His other hand glides up your side, feather light, to your back, running up and down your spine in a way that makes you sleepy and ticklish. He’s being so gentle and sweet that your heart does somersaults.

You hear footsteps approaching that stop at the door. Sam’s back. You push away from Dean and quickly make some distance. Dean says something, but you miss it as the door opens. Something something goes?, you think, trying to piece what it could be.

Sam looks between you and his brother and grins. Your chest seizes. Sam already knows. That’s what Dean said. Sam. Already. Knows. Of course, he fucking knows! Goddamn Winchesters! 

Your face heats up and Sam teases, “Should I come back or…?”

You hang your head. “I hate both of you.”

“Aww, that’s not fair,” Sam breezes. “I was gonna give you a present.”

Present? Sam has his hands behind his back in a classic present-giving position. What is it? Did he go to the vending machine? He wasn’t gone long. “What present?” you ask as you try to look through his body.

Sam reveals your gift, holding it out in front of him and letting it fully unfold. “I asked the front desk for an extra blanket,” he gloats.

“A blanket?!” you laugh, grinning ear to ear as you take it from him and wrap it around yourself. “I love it. ...See? Now I need to steal this when we leave,” you playfully gush.

“I’m sure they won’t notice.” Sam shrugs.

“I could’ve done that,” Dean grumbles to Sam.

“Oh… but you didn’t,” Sam responds.

* * *

Once you shower and brush your teeth, the alcohol has left your system, leaving you to wrestle with what happens when you leave your steamy bathroom paradise. Sam knows you and Dean are… together? You’re not together. But you’re something and Sam knowing proves what you already feared. This means something now. What, you don’t know, but _something_. 

...And it’ll be over one day.

You blow dry your hair enough that it’s not soaking wet. You meant what you said. Whatever it is, you’re not ready for it to end. You’re also not ready for it to mean something. But you want it to mean something? Ugh! The more you let this mean to you now, the worse you’ll feel when it’s over later. You can toe the line, stand right on the edge of caring too little and caring too much. It’s fun, you tell yourself, but it doesn’t mean anything. Even if Sam knows, it’s not a big deal.

When you get out of the bathroom, the boys are each in their respective beds, Sam tucked further right on his. Making room, you think. You did ask this morning if you could bunk with him. Dean is smack dab in the middle of his bed, making a show of stretching and showcasing all the space sleeping alone affords him. You do not let him see you smile. He cannot have the satisfaction.

You walk over to Sam’s bed, where you left your blanket, and pick it up. You’re standing between the two beds when Sam shuts off the light. Sam’s a blob again, but you have enough light tonight to see his back is to you. You peek behind you and Dean is bathed in moonlight just like the night before, his back to you too. 

With the quiet stillness of the night, things feel simpler. Maybe it’s the steady rise and fall of Dean’s breaths as he tries to fall asleep. This all started with a coin flip. That sounds crazy, but it’s true. They flipped a coin and you honored that. They played a game when you all got here too, you think. _“Loser gets her.”_

You poke Dean’s side and he turns over.

“Move over, loser,” you whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bitch...
> 
> BITCH!
> 
> I hope y'all are ready for the next chapter. There will be smut and honestly? After writing so much regular story in the last week, I was like "Am I a freak?? IS THIS ALLOWED?!" And objectively, it's not that crazy, but it feels like I should be fading to black. So congratulations, me, I truly made this story feel like a T.V. show...
> 
> Also I realized that I just straight up DO NOT mention Castiel or angels or demons because trying to fit this "episode" into a definitive space in the canon timeline sounds horrible. But this has to take place in at LEAST season 8 because I used the bunker??? But then Sam would have come back from Hell??? And Dean would have come back from purgatory???? WHY DO THEY DIE AND COME BACK SO MUCH?!
> 
> "The answer is: Don't think about it." - Rick Sanchez
> 
> So I don't. 
> 
> ...much.
> 
> As always, please tell me what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Winchesters discuss the case over coffee...
> 
> (Smut is here, y'all!!)

You wake up to Dean nuzzling you. Your eyes still closed, you stretch and hum in appreciation. Your sheets feel diff- You’re at the motel, you suddenly remember. Sam is not even two feet from you. Your eyes shoot open and you elbow Dean away. Wait though… Sam’s bed is empty. You look around, turning in Dean’s arms. You’re still wrapped up in your blanket while he’s laying over his. From his demeanor and his minty breath, you know he’s been awake.

“Sam went to get coffee,” Dean states, the implication heavy in the air.

You wrap your arms around his neck, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “That was nice of him.” Your eyes dart to his lips.

“Uh huh,” he hums. 

Dean whips your blanket off of you and you squeal. He scoops you up, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him. He guides your head down for a kiss and you jerk back against it, pushing on his chest to make some distance.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you blurt.

Dean sighs, the act clearly faux annoyance. “Don’t start,” he playfully warns, pulling down to him again.

You want to argue ‘I’m not starting’ but that would be starting and then he’d be right. That can’t happen. So, you reason, if he doesn’t care then you don’t care. You wouldn’t normally give in so easily. Something about this waking up to sex situation has you feeling giddy. Dean must feel that way too because you can feel him smiling to each kiss. Unfortunately, as much as you’d like an extended, smiley makeout session, you don’t know how long Sam will be gone.

You pull away and quickly get your shirt and bra off. Dean’s hands immediately knead your breasts and your arch into his touch. You tug at his shirt deliberately and he sits up enough to fling it off. You giggle. He really flung it. It’s on the lamp! He guides your attention back to him, sitting up now with you in his lap while his mouth drags across your jaw and down your neck. Teeth scrape across your pulse and you gasp. Dean sucks and licks a tiny spot on your neck that sends a rush of heat to your core. 

You hurriedly and unabashedly tug the waist of his pants, silently telling him what you need next. Once he starts moving, you get off his lap enough to remove your own bottoms and panties. You’re naked first. Dean licks his lips, his gaze burning a trail across your body, and smirks as he takes his boxers off. You weakly glare at him as you return to straddling him.

He holds your hip with one hand, giving you pause, and lets his other hand drift up to your hair. “You need this, don’t you?” he teases.

You move to kiss him quiet and the hand in your hair tightens, keeping you at bay.

“Oh, babygirl…” He’s so close your noses brush. He shifts his hold on your hips and grinds his hard cock against your pussy. You close your eyes. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says.

The smirk in his voice tells you that’s a bold faced lie. You can’t hold back the whine as his cock presses against your clit. If he was really sorry, he’d be fucking you right now. You press down and try to roll your hips to get him inside you. His lips drag down to your neck, finding that same spot that made you wet. He bites down and you cry out, then his tongue soothes the area in contrition.

“Dean…,” you whine.

His hand leaves your hair to idly play with your breast as he asks, “What is it, babygirl?” His breath is heavy. He can try to sound unaffected, but you hear it, you _feel_ it. He needs this too.

“Fuck me,” you order.

Dean hums, holding back a smile. He doesn’t say anything, only continues this delicious torture.

“You’re…” You close your eyes as he hitches his hips just the tiniest bit, putting more pressure on your clit when he thrusts up. “You’re wasting time.”

The truth of that flickers across his face, but he doesn’t give you any time to be smug about it. His cock slides into you and you both gasp at the feel of it. It's still such a tight fit. He used to have to finger you open, but now your body surrenders to him more and more each time. He's trained you to take cock, you think, and you shiver, rocking yours hips into him in a languid rhythm.

Him sitting up and bucking into you is a new position. As you roll into him and he guides you each time, his lips capturing yours between pants and trailing across your jaw as your breath stutters, his hands at your hips and your hands clawing at his back, urging him impossibly closer, you think this might be a new favorite.

Favorite, though it may be, you soon find this position doesn't offer the speed you crave. You nudge him onto his back and ride him feverishly. Dean thrusts up, pounding into you hard and deep. You hope the room has thick walls. Your moans fill the room. The bed creaks. Dean grunts, his brow creased and eyes closed as you ride him and he desperately tries to increase the pace.

Fuck, he's right. You need it faster. You're so close. So close, but you need more. You pause and tug his shoulders as you climb off of him, coaxing him to swap positions. He must be close too because he doesn't even tease you. 

He cages you in, hitches your legs up on his hips and fucks like you need. If the neighbors couldn't hear you before, they do now. You pull him closer, sucking in his bottom lip and licking into his mouth. He's all over you like this. God, you did need this. You needed to feel him again, close enough to feel his pulse, feel the heat of his skin, close enough that there's nothing between you two anymore, and life is simple. 

You don't want it to end.

But fuck, you can't hold back anymore.

"That's it, babygirl…" he pants. "Fuck. Come on my cock."

You're coming before the words finish leaving this mouth. Dean fucks you through it, showering you with whispered, breathy praise, and then he sits up on his knees and pulls your hips up in a snap, fucking you fast and hard. Still blissed out, you look up at him with hooded eyes and play with your breasts. 

The way he watches you makes your pussy clench and overstimulated or not, you want to cum again. You flick one nipple and drag your other hand down to your clit. You gasp as his pace doubles. You're already right on the edge.

"Please…" you beg. Fuck, he feels like he's close but you are too. "Please don't stop!"

Dean groans, closing his eyes, but keeps up the pace. You can feel him throb inside you.

"Yes, yes, yes!" You close your eyes and ride out the high.

Dean practically roars and if you were still in your body and not clearly dead and in heaven, you would laugh. With a winded breath, Dean collapses on top of you and now you do laugh. He sounds just as wrecked as you feel.

Dean nuzzles into your neck and you pet his head while you both try to catch your breath. He sighs into your neck, pressing a chaste kiss and giving a less chaste suck to your skin. 

You squeak and then sigh, "I'm gonna need that coffee."

You feel Dean laugh.

* * *

You and Dean are both showered and dressed by the time Sam gets back. You didn’t need a full shower since you washed up the night before, but you had to clean up a bit after Dean came inside you. Why not shower together? It made sense. You didn’t mean to get your hair wet, but you also couldn’t keep your hands off of him while he was under the shower spray. And, you reasoned, that shower was super cramped anyway. You had to stick close together… It’s not Dean had been keeping his hands to himself either. So when Sam gets back, your hair is wet and Dean’s hair is wet and the fact that you were in the shower together is glaringly obvious, but so is the fact that you two were going to fuck given that Sam took his time to get bagels as well.

Your face is on fire. This is all so new. Sure, Sam seems cool with it, but you’re still never talking about it with him. All of you are just gonna live in blissful ignorance and denial. At least that’s your plan. You grab a coffee and take a big gulp. 

“So…” Sam drawls with a mischievous smile. You watch with bated breath as he sets his keys on the dresser, takes his coat off, and sits at the table. Is he going to break the cardinal rule of Not Talking About It?! “Where’d you go last night?”

When you relax and his grin grows, you know he was messing with you the whole time. You almost had a heart attack for nothing. You’re still thankful that he led the direction to hunting. Back to business. You can do business.

“I got that jacket at New Hope,” you state, gesturing to the jacket currently laid out on the dresser.

“A New Hope?” Dean asks with a mouthful of bagel.

Sam mutters, “Chew your food.”

“It’s a church,” you explain. “They have a clothing drive coming up. But…” You move to the bed and hold your coffee in your lap with both hands, thinking back to the basement’s flickering lights and your breath fanning out into the air. “I don’t know. It felt like something was showing me where that jacket was and then the dude’s body pops out of the ground? That’s got ‘ghost’ written all over it.”

Dean turns in his chair to face you. “Didn’t get any readings at the morgue.”

Oh. Your face falls. “I didn’t get any readings either,” you admit. “I went back to New Hope with Maude, but there was no activity.”

“Who’s Maude?” Sam asks curiously. “You never mentioned her before.”

“She’s a local,” you say with a sip of your coffee. “Attends the church. Sweetest thing ever, but man, she can put ‘em back…”

“And she’s in love with some guy?” Sam asks for clarification, a cheeky smile in place. 

You roll your eyes. You remember everything you said last night, but your momentary lack of filter is a little embarrassing. “Yes, Sam, she is. I don’t see how that’s pertinent.” 

You take a long sip, glaring over your cup at one Samuel Winchester. Little shit takes a sip of his coffee and you can tell by the way his eyes crinkle that he’s smiling.

Dean interrupts your and Sam’s staring contest with “I think it’s a werewolf.”

You and Sam immediately drop the game and turn to Dean.

Dean shrugs and takes a bite of his bagel, mouthful, he says, “No heart.”

“That’s one body!” you argue.

“Two,” Sam corrects, mulling over his brother’s suggestion. He opens up his laptop and starts typing away.

“Either way,” you say, “I went over the files. Werewolves attack around the full moon. These reports are all over the place.”

Dean nods to you, asking indignantly, “What do _you_ think it is?”

You shrink back, giving your own shrug, and mumble, “A ghost.”

Dean throws his hands up. “There’s no evidence of a _ghost_. You said so yourself.”

“I know what I felt. There is a ghost,” you insist stubbornly. “If it was a werewolf, there’d be a bunch of mutilated bodies being found, not missing people _not_ being found.”

Dean looks you over, lets you stew, and then leans back and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m pretty sure it’s a werewolf.”

You scoff, “On what “ _evidence_ ”?”

He smirks. “Instinct.”

“That’s-!” You turn to the younger, assuredly more reasonable Winchester. “Sam! Control him.”

Sam shakes his head at his computer. “I’ve tried.” You hear the clack of him typing. “You’re right,” he says. “If we organize this by the lunar cycle, then it doesn’t line up.”

You look at Dean and silently gloat.

“If it’s a ghost, what do these people have in common?” Sam postulates. “Spirits typically haunt an area or seek out specific people. I’m not saying it’s not, but…”

He is, Dean mouths. 

“What I’m _saying_ -” Sam glares at his brother. “-is if it’s a ghost, we’ll need to figure out who it is.”

“‘Cause it wasn’t the guy in the morgue,” Dean reminds.

With your coffee in one hand, you raise a pillow threateningly with the other. Dean looks to Sam and points at you accusingly.

Sam sighs. “Instead of focusing on information we don’t have, let’s try to focus on what we do.”

You lower the pillow in shame. “You got something at the club?”

Sam shrugs. “Something. One of the girls… I told her we were trying to find Cynthia and she said “She’s gone.” I don’t think Cynthia Clairemont is missing. I think she’s dead.”

“That is something,” you quickly agree. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing,” Dean answers for his brother. “Those girls know what happened, but Boss Lady’s got them tight lipped.”

“They’re scared,” Sam says. “Whatever happened, they’re not talking. Not to us.”

“I know what happened,” Dean says with his last bite of bagel. “Werewolf broke the door down.” You and Sam look at him. “ _Something_ broke the door down. ...And it sure as hell wasn’t Glenda.”

“Galina,” Sam corrects.

“Whatever,” Dean snipes.

Ignoring Dean’s Werewolf thing for now, you focus on what Sam said. The girls won’t talk to FBI agents… 

“I’m sure they talk to each other,” you wonder aloud. The two Winchesters look to you and you continue, “What if I worked there?”

The room is silent.

“There’s at least one job opening, right?,” you joke to break the tension.

“ _You’re_ going to work at a strip club. Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs.

“No,” Sam softly argues. He nods along to the plan forming in his head. “It could work. You’d do that?”

“Yeah!,” you happily agree. “It’d be like going undercover.”

Sam smiles at your enthusiasm. “Yeah. We can look into other leads, but, if you can get info out of them-?”

“I can,” you hastily assure.

Dean butts in, “You two remember this is a strip club. The women who work there strip.”

You turn your nose up at him. “And what is _wrong_ with stripping?”

“Nothing,” Dean says earnestly. “If you’re serious, I’ll be in the front row. I’ll throw a bunch of singles early on-” He gets Sam’s attention like he’s passing on ancient wisdom. “-start a bidding war.” Then Dean’s attention is on you. “Busy Saturday Night? You’ll make a fortune.”

Your mind immediately conjures up the image of Dean sitting front and center as you strip on stage. Even though he mentioned a bidding war, your brain doesn’t give you an audience. It’s just him in the front row and you center stage.

“I don’t need you to start anything!” you squeak, your face flaming as you stuff it with bagel.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam interjects. “This is about intel.” Then Sam turns to you. “We won’t ever go inside while you… dance,” he awkwardly promises.

Dance. Yeah. Naked. On stage.

“Thank you,” you say and shove more bagel in your mouth so you don’t have to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am floored by the attention this fic has received and by the genuinely kind people I (virtually) met. I've never had so much interaction with a story I've written. I'm so honored! And y'all are so beautiful and validating and kind. It really does brighten up my day to hear y'all's favorite parts and to see you trying to figure out the mystery and I'm so glad someone other than me likes this!
> 
> I cannot WAIT to see y'all's reaction to later events!!! I want to rush and get there, but I gotta waiiitttt. I will not spoil it. It's so funny watching you guys are saying "So and So is sus or am i overthinking it!?!!?" I'M DEAD! Please overanalyze this story.
> 
> You all are beautiful bitches. Please continue to be beautiful bitches. I love you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have to look the part for your new job.

Dean shouldn’t be here, you think. First of all, this is a store that predominantly sells women’s lingerie. And secondly, after he  _ laughed _ at the notion of you stripping, you wanted some space. What did that laugh mean? Was he making fun of your body? He hadn’t been complaining earlier! Then he offered to drive you, perhaps an olive branch on his part. You weren’t ready to forgive just yet, but you had walked a ton yesterday, so you agreed. No one said you had to be happy about it.

You certainly were not happy. Dean has no business being so comfortable here when you started blushing the moment you stepped in. You’re not embarrassed about sex persay, but this is one moment where Dean’s “experience” shows. You felt barraged by everything, but not Dean. All the straps and lace and tights are nothing new. Worst of all, he’s being annoyingly helpful. That may be because you’re more engrossed in watching him look through the store than actually looking at anything yourself. Still! You’re pretty sure you can figure out how to dance topless. Thank you very much. You don’t need his pity.

Dean picks up a spray bottle and sniffs it. Upon reading the bottle, he then sprays his hand and  _ licks _ . A wince and a shake of his head later, he’s lifting the bottle in your direction. You quickly slap his hands down, trying your best not to draw any more attention to the only man in this store.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-yell. “Put that down!”

Dean shrugs. “It says ‘Try Me’,” he argues, but thankfully puts the bottle down. “Every stripper smells like that. You should get it,” he states, already moved on and idly looking through lacy, stringy bits of fabric masquerading as clothes.

“I don’t need to smell like-” You glance down and read the label. “-Vanilla Cupcake.” You roll your eyes and make some distance. Maybe you can pretend you’re not with him. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean reminds you for the hundredth time. Of course, he follows you, you think. “Sam got the girl’s address. We can swing by her apartment. Check it out.” You know by his tone that once again you are not part of the ‘We’.

Another reason that Dean should not be here: he keeps trying to convince you not to strip. It’s a good plan that you and Sam agree on. Majority vote wins. And either way, you think, it’s your choice and none of his business. Ugh… One second he’s coaching you on what strippers smell like and in the next breath he’s telling you you shouldn’t bother with it anyway. The ping pong logic is giving you a headache.

“Why won’t you let me work this case?” you ask.

Dean leans back, scoffing and settling his weight on a nearby table. “Oh, you’re working the case now. Looked like you were shopping and having drinks with your girlfriend.”

You don’t know what pisses you off more, the implication that you’re not pulling your weight or how he casually thumbed through panties while he said it. You slap his hand away from a pair he’s tugging out of the pile and argue, “I was investigating a lead.”

“Alone?” he presses. You have to look up at him. When did he get so close? Did you do that?

You step away. “You and Sam had your own thing,” you point out, busying yourself with the next table of lingerie.

“What about before?” Dean asks, pulling around the opposite side of the table. You can’t get him out of your peripheral vision this way and he knows it. His voice is low and calm, but you know it’s a filter for the public. “You think there’s a ghost and you don’t call? What were you going to do if Casper broke bad? You ran out so fast, you didn’t have anything on you. Did you even bring your phone?”

“Ye-!” You cut yourself before you yell at him in the middle of the store. Of course, you brought your phone! And you didn’t think you’d encounter a ghost first thing in the morning! Who would?! “What are you mad about?!” you whisper yell again, but your voice carries and you give up caring. “That I wasn’t working or that I  _ was _ ? Pick a lane! Why are you here anyway? Everyone is staring at you,” you hiss.

You want him to be embarrassed. You want him to be ashamed that everyone is staring at him because he’s a creepy guy touching lady’s delicates. Forget the fact that everyone is staring at the couple having an argument in public. Forget that you’re not a couple. Forget everything because you’re not wrong, he is. 

He doesn’t rise to your challenge. Instead he licks his lips, eyes glancing over the small audience you’ve gained, and he keeps his voice quiet and his words just for you. “I know this stuff makes you uncomfortable,” he says honestly.

You… You never told him that.

You never told anyone that.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you counter, grabbing an armful of what is on the table, not caring about what you’re grabbing or what size any of it is as you head to the dressing room. He can’t follow you there.

“How many?” the attendant asks.

“I don’t know,” you answer grumpily with your arms full. You feel a corset mixed in the bunch as you adjust your arms and hear Dean walking up behind you. “Just go!,” you order without turning around.

You expect him to yell back. You  _ want _ him to yell back. When you’re playing Tug O’ War the last thing you want is to have the other side let go. You’d fall flat on your ass. That’s not winning. Besides…

The bell over the front door rings and you turn just in time to catch Dean’s back as he leaves.

...the game would be over.

“Why don’t I find you some pieces and we can figure out what you want,” the attendant kindly suggests, taking the heap of lingerie from you.

You numbly go along with the exchange. You know it’s her job to sound nice and you know she’s talking about the clothes, but, with one more glance to the door, you hope she’s right.

* * *

The Impala is easy to spot. You noticed it the moment you left the sanctuary of the dressing room, you noticed it as you paid, and you notice it as you stall at the door. The girls at the shop assumed “your boyfriend” -you didn’t bother correcting them- is jealous. The girls also told you that you get a discount here since you’re an “exotic dancer”, so, hey, there’s your silver lining. After one last second and a determined breath you push open the door and the little bell chimes.

Dean doesn’t say anything when you slip in the passenger seat. You only chance sideways glances at him, so you’re unsure what expression he has on his face. This is the part where one of you apologizes, you think. 

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you say. 

“I dropped you off,” he responds tersely. The car starts and Dean pulls out. “Why wouldn’t I drive you back?”

Because you told him to go, you silently counter. You got around without him before. You could do it again. He knew that. You knew that. But he stayed and there’s this prickling feeling under your skin because of it. Just like back in the store. You push down the urge to shout at him again. There’s no reason to. He said nice things and he did nice things. Why yell at him? Because he isn’t supposed to, you think. He’s not supposed to say things like that and he’s not supposed to stick around.

He’s not your boyfriend.

The girls at the shop had it all wrong. Some of the blame is on you for that, but they’re still way off base. Dean isn’t jealous that other men will see you naked. Woah, okay… That is really sinking in. You are going to be topless in front of strangers. Anyway! Dean isn’t jealous of that. He hasn’t mentioned that particular aspect at all. 

Your phone buzzes.

**_Maude - Did you do it yet?_ **

You can’t help the tiny smile that takes the corners of your mouth. Sweet, simple Maude. Yeah, you did. You told him last night and had great sex this morning and now you’re sitting in a car listening/not listening to Styx. The bit of smile you had fades.

You text back,  **_Yeah. :)_ ** You add the smile to make it sound happy and because it’s easier to fake smile over text. 

“Who’s that?” Dean asks. 

Three songs in and he finally speaks. You don’t answer at first, unsure what he means until his eyes flick down to your phone. The shop girls poisoned your mind because all you can think is- “Are you jealous?”

“Jealous of what?” Dean scoffs and keeps focused on the road. “Tell Sam-”

“It’s not Sam,” you say, interrupting him with the truth and coy smile. His jaw tightens before he forces himself to relax. Your toes curl at how he holds back. He  _ is _ jealous. That’s not something you thought you’d like, but here you are. “Do you want to see what I bought?”

He doesn’t take your bait. “Who are you texting?” Dean side-eyes you suspiciously. “Your friend? ...Mabel?”

“Maude, you mean?” you laugh.

“Maude,” he repeats, tapping the steering wheel. “That’s right.”

You weakly glare at the side of his face. He’s holding back a smile and trying to keep up his serious demeanor while he pulls into the motel parking lot. He knows he’s right already. Jerk.

“I was thinking,” he starts.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you quip.

With the engine off and music gone, it’s suddenly so quiet. Plus, Dean’s looking at you for the first time since… Was that a fight? It felt like a fight.

“I want you to take something with you tonight,” Dean says as he gets out of the car. 

You follow him to the trunk. No one is around, but then again, you, Dean, and Sam are basically the only tenants at this “fine establishment”. The only other person you’ve met so far was clearly having an affair and he did not appreciate being spotted. No one here would be nosy. Even so, you still crowd next to Dean to shield the Impala’s second trunk from view. You bump into him as you peer into the massive weapon cache. Some of the knives glint in the sunlight.

You’re preoccupied with cataloguing what weapon is best suited for what monster, testing your own knowledge, when you feel Dean take your hand. The simple gesture surprises you. For all the things you’ve done with Dean, you have not held hands. Not really. Especially held hands  _ in public _ . No one’s around, but anyone could walk out and see you holding hands with Dean Win-

He places a gun in your hand.

Oh.

“A gun?” You tuck the gun down back into the cover of the trunk. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You shoot things,” he dryly responds. “Have you not used one before?”

“Yes. I have.” You’re pressed up against his side which makes glaring up at him hurt your neck. “I  _ mean  _ I won’t exactly have pockets.”

“Stash it somewhere,” he reasons like that’s the obvious answer and the only solution. He takes your hands and places the gun back in your palm. “But take it with you.”

It’s heavy. You’ll need both hands to aim worth a damn.

“It’s loaded with silver bullets,” Dean explains. “Whatever you find, a few slugs to the chest should knock it down and if I’m right…” He takes a second to gloat like his plan is so genius. “With the silver, it’s a done deal.”

You’re about to remind him again that this is an intel gathering mission and you will most definitely not need a gun when you realize he’s worried about you. The revelation is both uplifting and terrifying. You’ve never had someone worry about you. Not like this. This is something new and raw. Like a newborn deer still finding its legs and, like with a newborn deer, you’re afraid to get too close. You look up at Dean, the gun held loosely in your hand. What if you hurt it? What if it runs away?

Dean frowns, “Are you gonna take the damn thing or not?”

You chuckle. Alright. Maybe thinking about a baby fawn in relation to Dean is a bit overboard. It feels true enough though. Thinking about woodland creatures has you thinking about fairytales next. Your life could not be further from a fairytale, but… he’d be the prince in this story, right? With a dash of bravery, you close the distance and kiss his cheek like a proper princess. 

Dean looks down quizzically at you.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. ABORT! ABORT!

“...Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly, tucking the gun into your jacket. 

Why did you do that? You can feel smirking at your back. You can feel it! You scurried away to the room, but you don’t have a fucking key because you gave yours to Sam before you left, so now you’re stuck at the door. Dean’s gonna say something about it and you’re going to have no rebuttal. 

Dean puts one arm on the doorframe and takes out the room key with his other hand, caging you in as you try to move out of the way. Once you’re trapped, he takes his time, pausing with the key in the lock and looking down at you.

“You still wanna show me what you bought?” he drawls.

“No,” you lie.

“Get a room!,” Sam calls from behind, more take out in hand. 

You want to sink into the doorframe and hide. Sam catching you two doing whatever  _ this _ is is terrible. Now you know how Affair Guy felt. Sam should mind his business.

“We got one,” Dean retorts, still unmoving, still caging you in.

Sam meets you both at the yet to be opened door. You press on Dean’s arm and, instead of letting you out like you want, he lets his arm relax onto your shoulders and pulls you to his side.

Sam eyes the key in the door. “Did you forget how they work?”

Dean rolls his eyes and opens the door, letting Sam in first. Dean’s hand finds your lower back and he guides you in next. You toss your elbow back at him, completely missing his side. Dammit, he knew you’d do that. That prickling feeling is back again.

“Will you quit it?” you ask, unsure yourself what you’re asking him to quit.

“Quit what?” he smiles. You catch when his eyes dart down to your lips and your tongue slips out to wet your suddenly dry mouth.

Jerk. You know your face is flush because it feels like it’s on fire. Slowly, you snake your hand up his neck and lean in, but before he can meet you, you tug his ear. “I said ‘Quit it.’”

Sam snorts. Dean hisses and rubs his ear. You take a seat across from Sam and start taking out the food to see what’s what. The first container you grab is orange chicken for Dean.

“Here.” You push the container and some rice over to the empty seat next to you. “Eat.”

Dean takes his seat, you find your food, and the three of you in what could be a comfortable silence. The boys look fine, but that prickling feeling won’t go away. It’s like an itch under your skin and the more you try to ignore it, the stronger it gets. You try not to fidget lest the Winchesters catch the scent of an issue. You wouldn’t know what to tell them anyway.

This is nice, eating together, you think numbly lest the itch grow. Sam knows and things are nice. Quiet. 

...You hate it. 

You feel Dean’s warm hand on your knee. He looks at you with a questioning tilt of his head. Shit. You were so focused on keeping still, you stopped eating. You shoot him a bright smile and take a heaping mouthful of Szechuan chicken. 

The prickling feeling doesn’t go away when Dean takes his hand away.

It’s worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK ME FOREVER!!! I focused so much on the mystery aspect (which i got LOCKED. DOWN.) that now I'm like where am in this present story. I have a whole outline for how shit went down in the past so facts can stay consistent and now I'm just letting my babies play in this world and there's so many options, y'all!!
> 
> This fight they have is SO REAL TO ME! If these bitches could just be honest with themselves and each other, we'd all be happy. But do they ever say what they mean?! NAHHHHH


End file.
